


The Cornish Way

by jolecia



Series: Coffee Shop AU [1]
Category: Poldark (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Coffee Shops, F/M, First Meetings, Fluff, Holidays
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-03-30
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jolecia/pseuds/jolecia
Summary: London banker and entrepreneur George Warleggan isn’t too pleased when he’s coerced into taking an extended holiday in his home county by his secretary. A chance meeting with Elizabeth Chynoweth, a successful Cornish artist, in a coffee shop in Truro, however, might be just the thing to change his mind.





	1. Chapter 1

“One latte, a slice of raspberry cheesecake and…George, what will you be having?”

George Warleggan stared up at the board upon which the menu of the little coffee shop in Truro was written with an air of almost despairing bafflement. It was not as if he had never been to a place like this before, nor that he was unfamiliar names, but, considering that his frequenting of these kinds of establishments mostly consisted of a mad dash in and out of the Starbucks round the corner from his London office, espresso clutched tightly in his hand in order to keep himself awake during the ensuing long and tedious meetings, he couldn’t help but feel a little daunted by the scope of choice. And besides, he had always been more of a tea-drinker himself, when he had the time to sit down and savour it. Unfortunately, the teas on offer perplexed him even more than the coffees did.

“Ah…an americano please?” he said to the pretty redhead behind the counter, resorting to what he always ordered on the rare occasions that Caroline managed to drag him out for coffee back in London.

“Oh come on, George, you’re on holiday,” Francis snorted from beside him, rolling his eyes. “At least have something with milk in it. Or a cake. It won’t kill you.”

George shot his friend a resigned look. It was true that he was indeed on holiday, something for which he blamed his attorney, Mr Tankard. The man had, in passing, mentioned to his secretary that he seemed rather tired. Ms Collings had, apparently, taken this to heart, as she had seen to it that all his meetings and appointments had been mysteriously cleared, before booking a little cottage in Cornwall under his name for three weeks. She had also refused to hear any of his protests—not even his vehement cries of “three weeks?!”—and in the end he had had no choice but to give rather grudgingly in. Even worse, to ensure that he actually spent the time relaxing, she had informed him in no uncertain terms that for nothing short of the company being on the verge of folding would she, or anyone else for that matter, be contacting him about work during that time. Though he had been unable to argue the point with her, draconian as she could often be and even more supremely stubborn than he was, he had aired his complaints aplenty to Caroline amid his grumbled mutterings of “what the bloody hell am I going to do with _three weeks_ of holiday anyway?” as she cackled with laughter on the other end of the phone.

“Oh very well, I’ll have…erm…,” he sighed, scanning the various confectionaries on offer to see which option looked the most appealing. “I’ll…oh I don’t know…I’ll have a croissant.”

“An excellent choice, sir” said the redhead, a wry smile playing on her lips, before turning to the coffee machine and setting about making their order. George reached into his jacket and drew his wallet out from the inside pocket, but he had barely slipped his credit card out from its slot before Francis swatted his hand away, tutting.

“Oh no you don’t. On holiday, remember?,” he scolded him, a brow arched. “These are on me.”

“Francis—”

“Ah ah, I’m not being swayed. I’m taking a leaf out of your secretary’s book. You’ll just have to put up with it.”

Knowing that this was a fight he wasn’t going to win, George put his wallet away. The Poldark’s ever diminishing finances were something of a sore point for Francis, and he didn’t want to risk insulting him by insisting that he pay.

“There you go, boys,” said the redhead with a cheery grin once she had finished assembling their order onto the tray on top of the counter. “One latte, one americano, a slice of raspberry cheesecake and of course the obligatory croissant.”

George couldn’t help but smile slightly at her friendly demeanour. Francis, too, chuckled, sending her a broad grin and a warm “great, thanks Demelza” which made his companion raise a curious eyebrow in his direction, before whipping out his card to pay. That done, he picked up the tray and headed out into the bright May sunlight, George following at his back.

The coffee shop was located along Truro harbour, and as they sat down at one of the few available tables in the outside seating area, George felt the cool sea breeze blow lightly over him, bringing with it the smell of salt and seaweed, the sound of boats creaking and groaning from where they bobbed languidly in the calm waters and the cry of gulls overhead. Despite himself, he felt a small smile creep onto his face. Though he would never admit it to Ms Collings, he did often miss his childhood home, especially when his life in the city became particularly hectic. He didn’t quite miss it enough to justify three weeks of doing nothing though, he reminded himself with no small degree of exasperation.

“So,” he said, pulling his coffee and croissant towards him, and tilting his head upwards and giving his friend a teasing smile. “ _Demelza?_ ”

This, after all, was not something that had been mentioned in their numerous phone and Skype calls, and he was itching to know if the man’s oddly familiar exchange with the barista had meant what he thought it did.

“Oh hush,” said Francis with a huff that managed to be simultaneously amused and self-conscious. “I come here a lot and we got talking. It’s nice. She’s very nice. That’s all.”

“Mm hmm?” hummed George, sending him a coy look over the rim of his coffee cup. For all that Francis claimed it was nothing, he couldn’t help but notice that the other man had turned a rather deep shade of pink which he suspected had nothing to do with sunburn.

“So…uh…how’s Cary?” Francis asked, a little awkwardly, quick to change the subject before his friend could delve any further into the matter. He winced slightly, apparently realising that he could have chosen a better topic to distract him with.

“You probably know the answer to that question better than I do,” George replied drily. “I guess I can only be thankful that Ms Collings didn’t decide the best way to ensure my rest and relaxation was to send me off to stay with him at Cardew.”

He tried to keep his tone light, unbothered, but nevertheless he felt his heart sink a little, as it always did when the subject of his uncle was brought up. He couldn’t quite remember the last time he had spoken to Cary face to face—in fact, he guilty confessed to himself, he was part of the reason why he so rarely returned to Cornwall nowadays. Nothing specific or dramatic had happened between them—no row or anything—but their relationship had always been poor. Cary had taken him in after his father died, and he was grateful for that, of course, but the man had never shown the slightest bit of care for him, and trying to make an effort with him always left him exhausted, drained and miserable. After he left for university, he had simply ended up drifting away, and now all they ever heard of each other was the odd terse text or email concerning matters of business.

“Ha, well I’m sure she knows better than that,” replied Francis in the same tone, for all that there was a slightly uncomfortable look in his eyes, before changing the subject once again rather than pressing the issue, for which George was immensely grateful. “Where are you staying anyway? Did she put you up in some place in the middle of nowhere?”

George huffed out a soft laugh.

“I was worried she might,” he confessed. “Country air, you know. But it isn’t so bad. It’s not far from here, actually—on Rowantree Farm. Do you know it?”

“Prudie Paynter’s place?”

“Yeah, that’s the name of the owner. You know her too then, I take it?”

“In passing,” said Francis with a shrug. “She used to work for my uncle—as a cleaner or something.”

The conversation progressed a little more easily from there, all thoughts of Cary forgotten as they chatted about nothing in particular. Francis briefly shared some news about Ross that he had received recently, though neither of them cared to linger on the subject. George had never liked the man, a feeling that was entirely mutual, and that Ross had chosen to evidence in a series of increasingly malicious pranks throughout their schooldays, but Francis had also, at some point, fallen out with his older cousin. George was not entirely sure of the details—Francis didn’t like to talk about it—but he knew that Ross’ quarrel with him (and a good many other people by the sounds of it) had come to an abrupt end when he had sold his family home of Nampara and the surrounding land, and upped and left for America. Nowadays, Francis seemed to hear from him even less than George did from his uncle, and, though he knew it was uncharitable, he thought it was good riddance.

The conversation had just turned to the subject of the local elections and Truro and Falmouth’s Tory MP, Unwin Trevaunance, whom George had not seen in years despite having gone to university with him, when a newcomer arrived on the scene. Glancing around him at the crowds milling past them along the harbour front, his eyes squinted slightly against the bright sunlight, George noticed a young woman with long, brown, wavy hair come meandering in their direction, her gaze half focused on the sea to her right. He could not have said what drew his attention to her in the first place, but she undeniably had it now. She was tall and elegant, her pale skin a sharp contrast to her dark hair, which fluttered gently about her in the breeze, and she was clothed flatteringly in a light summer dress which fell down to her knees. A pair of sunglasses rested on the bridge of her nose and a broad, stylish sunhat cast a shadow over her face so that he couldn’t properly make it out, but even so she looked strangely…familiar.

“George?,” said Francis upon realising that his attention had wandered from their discussion, and he turned his own gaze to see what his friend was looking at. The frown that had begun to form on his face immediately cleared. “Oh. Elizabeth!”

This was directed towards the young woman, who started slightly, searching for the source of the call, spotted them and, with a wave and grin, headed over to them.

“Hello Francis,” she said brightly. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” Francis replied then, catching George’s inquisitive stare, shook himself. “Oh, right. Elizabeth, this is my friend, George—I think I mentioned he was coming here on holiday for a few weeks? George, this is Elizabeth. Elizabeth Chynoweth.”

Upon hearing his friend’s words, George suddenly realised why the young woman seemed so familiar. Elizabeth Chynoweth, a successful Cornwall-based artist, was a very close friend of Francis’ sister, Verity, and had, at one point, been Ross’ girlfriend (another connection that he had apparently abruptly severed on his move to America). He had never met her personally—despite them both being friends with Francis, the connection had never come full circle—but he had seen several photos of her, as well as having heard Francis speak about her a good many times. Those photos though, he couldn’t help but feel as he stood to take her outstretched hand, did not remotely do her justice.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” she said with a warm smile, giving his hand a surprisingly firm shake; her voice soft and welcoming, and he couldn’t help but smile back at her. “Francis has told me a lot about you.”

“Likewise,” George replied, hoping that he didn’t sound nearly so tongue-tied as he felt—it would have taken a blind man not to notice that she was a very beautiful woman, and though that in itself was something that rarely fazed him anymore, there was something about Elizabeth that seemed to make him feel inexplicably flustered. “Though I dread to think what Francis has been saying about me.”

Her laugh was a silvery, gentle sound, kind and genuine, and once again George felt like he didn’t know what to do with himself, as if he were an awkward teenager rather than a grown man and CEO of a major financial institution. Bloody hell, he’d thought that was a problem he’d overcome years ago.

“Oh don’t worry, it’s all good,” she reassured him. “Though perhaps I should be worried about what he’s been saying about me now,” she added with a teasing smile towards Francis. The man in question huffed and rolled his eyes.

“Hey, if anyone should be worried, it’s me,” he retorted good-naturedly. “Imagine all the embarrassing stories about me you two could tally up between you!”

They both laughed at this, several examples no doubt springing to both their minds, and just like that the ice was broken. Francis asked Elizabeth if she would like to join them and, as it turned out that she had been out on a leisurely walk at the time and had nowhere pressing to be, she readily accepted. George and Francis were left alone for a moment as she went inside to order a coffee, and George made a point of ignoring his friend’s teasing look until she returned, some kind of latte (George did not know enough about coffee to tell what it was beyond that) and a slice of lemon drizzle cake in her hands. As she sat down in the seat adjacent to both of them, Francis cast the cake an amused look.

“One day you’ll actually order something different and I’ll keel over in shock.”

“I happen to like the lemon drizzle cake—why do you think I come here?,” Elizabeth replied, a decidedly mischievous expression beginning to creep over her features. “But now that you mention it, maybe I should. No doubt Demelza’d be ready to leap over the counter and give you CPR if you did. I’m sure she’d appreciate it just as much as you.”

She said this with a playful smirk, her brow arched in his direction. Francis spluttered, turning bright pink. George, fortunately, managed to keep his composure a little better, though he was immensely glad that he hadn’t been taking a sip of coffee at the time or he would surely have choked on it—with laughter as much as shock. He had to confess that, from what little he had seen of Elizabeth, he wouldn’t have expected her to make so bold a remark. Clearly there was much more to her than met the eye.

“See, it’s happening already!,” Francis cried indignantly once his brief coughing fit had subsided, still as red as a beacon. “I feel victimised!”

“Oh, very well, I’ll be merciful,” Elizabeth replied with an amiable laugh. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to neglect my cake.”

At her words, George glanced down at his croissant, which he most certainly had been neglecting. Where Francis had polished off his raspberry cheesecake, not so much of a corner of the pastry had even been nibbled.

“God George, get a move on!,” snorted Francis, who had apparently had the same thought. “You’ll have no coffee left by the time you get round to eating that thing.”

“Might I remind you that I was coerced into getting this? I was perfectly happy with my croissant-less order.”

“Oh yes, forced to spend three weeks in a west country retreat and have French pastries bought for you. What a terrible life you lead.”

“You may laugh but you’re not the one who’s been usurped by his employees!”

Elizabeth, who had been watching their friendly bickering with a mix of interest and amusement, let out a soft chuckle. Her attention was fully on him now, and he suddenly felt very self-conscious.

“Well, there’s no point in wasting it now that it’s been bought,” she said with a warm smile. “Go on—it’s nice.”

“Though clearly inferior to the lemon drizzle cake” chipped in Francis, grinning.

“Naturally.”

Their expectant gazes were both on him now, and he soon realised that he had no choice but to give in.

“Oh alright” he relented, taking a careful bite out of the pastry. Elizabeth had been right—it was light, flaky and flavoursome, very clearly well made. This must have shown on his face, he supposed, as she beamed at him, bright and genuine, and he felt his stomach do a slight flip, hoping to God that the blush he could feel trying to surface wasn’t readily visible on his face.

The conversation moved onto other topics, and they soon found themselves losing track of time. George had expected that Francis and Elizabeth would do most of the talking—he could interact with new business associates fine, just as he knew how to navigate the seemingly endless parade of overly-expensive social functions that he somehow ended up invited to, but the art of natural conversation with new acquaintances outside of those contexts had always been a bit of a mystery to him. Elizabeth, however, managed to seamlessly include him in everything, encouraging him to speak up where he would usually have just listened. She was kind and intelligent, with interesting stories to tell and keen observations to make and, despite his initial shyness of her, they were soon chatting animatedly, Francis watching them over the rim of his coffee cup, a wry smile on his face.

“It was lovely to meet you at last,” Elizabeth said a good while later when they were saying goodbye. “How long will you be down here for?”

“Well I only arrived a couple of days ago so another three weeks, give or take,” replied George with an amused huff. “To be honest, I don’t really know what I’m going to do with myself.”

“Well I’m sure you’ll find something to interest you,” laughed Elizabeth. “Perhaps we’ll be seeing each other again soon?” she added with a tentative smile.

They said goodbye a few moments later, Elizabeth heading off back down the harbour with a smile and a wave, and George and Francis making off up the hill to where they had parked their cars. Francis had fixed him with a very shrewd look, and when George, finally realising that he couldn’t ignore it any longer, turned to raise an eyebrow at him, said “so…you and Elizabeth were getting on very well.”

George knew immediately from his friend’s triumphant expression that he was blushing, but he tried to act casual nevertheless.

“Of course we were. She was very—”

“Nice?,” suggested Francis drily. “As nice as I find Demelza, perhaps?”

“Aha! So you admit there’s something going on between you two then.”

“…Goddammit, George.”

George grinned, shaking his head in amusement at his friend’s put-out expression. He felt happy and light, his usual responsibilities pushed uncharacteristically out of his mind, so that he almost felt giddy at the strange sensation. Despite Francis’ teasing, and his earlier misgivings about this trip, he was quite sure that, at that moment, nothing could ruin his mood. The smile never left his face as he said goodbye to Francis and, slipping into the driver’s seat of his car, he allowed himself to contemplate the thought which had been creeping into his mind ever since Elizabeth had joined them. Though he would never have admitted it to anyone but himself, he was beginning to think that perhaps, just perhaps, this holiday wouldn’t be so bad after all.


	2. Chapter 2

George awoke to the sound of pigeons cooing heartily in the tree outside his bedroom window, which he had thrown wide open the previous evening in order to let some air into the room. A warm summer breeze was now wafting in through it, the thin, floor-length curtains swaying and billowing in front of it, its fingers caressing the bare skin of his back and shoulders where he lay face-down on the bed, his cheek pressed against the soft pillows. With a slight yawn, he rolled over onto his back and opened his eyes, staring up at the pale ceiling. The light was so bright that even with the curtains drawn, there was not a hint of darkness in the room.

“What time is it?” he wondered aloud, reaching for his wristwatch, which had been placed neatly next to his phone on the bedside cabinet. The face read nine-thirty. He blinked at it, then grabbed his phone, checking the time on there. It too stubbornly showed the time nine-thirty. But that was… He never slept this late. Usually, he would be up by half-six at the latest—unless he was ill of course. Yet he didn’t feel particularly ill now.  If anything, he felt pleasantly refreshed—a feeling that he had not experienced in quite some time. Upon making this realisation, a small, treacherous part of his brain began to wonder if this holiday weren’t perhaps long overdue after all.

Shaking himself, he sat up and reached over for his dressing gown, which was draped over a nearby chair. He wrapped it around himself and carefully made the bed before heading over to the oval mirror which sat on the side table at the far wall from the window. His hair was sticking up in all directions, and he quickly took a comb to it, so that it looked at least reasonably presentable. That done, he ran a hand over his jaw, feeling the slight roughness of stubble under his fingertips. He would have to shave later, no doubt, but it wasn’t particularly urgent at that moment. He would sort it out after breakfast.

Back in London, breakfast was usually a hurried affair—one slice of toast hastily consumed as he rushed around his flat, getting ready for another long day at the office, if that. This, however, was quite different, and given the hunger that was beginning to gnaw at him, George wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to savour it. Rifling through the cupboards, still not quite familiar enough with the cottage’s kitchen to remember exactly where everything was kept, he took out a prettily pattered bowl and a mug, before moving over to the kettle and filling it with water. As it boiled, he filled the bowl with milk and cereal and, after he had finished making his tea, took both items, headed over to the kitchen table, sinking into the chair at its head, and began to eat.

His tablet was sat on the table a little way away from him, and he reached over to it, propping it up in front of him and typing in his password with the intention of checking his emails. He had perhaps been a little optimistic—from the fact that both his work and personal emails were completely dead, it was evident that Ms Collings had been ruthlessly efficient in enforcing her promise that he would not be disturbed during this holiday.

“Goddammit” he muttered to himself. He didn’t like being out of the loop, not knowing what was going on. Rationally, he knew that his subordinates were perfectly capable of working without him for a few weeks, but in the absence of being informed of what was happening, his mind was far more inclined to jump to worse conclusions than better ones.

He finished his cereal perhaps a little quicker than was necessary, and his eyes began to wander towards the large wicker basket that sat on the middle of the table. Prudie Paynter, the owner of the farm and the proprietor of the little bungalow in which he was staying, had brought it over to him the day after he had arrived, full of an assortment of homemade baked goods. It was far from the last time he had seen her, despite only having been here a couple of days—the woman was almost alarmingly friendly, and seemed to take a personal interest in each and every one of her guests. She appeared particularly determined to gift him with as much of her produce as was humanly possible, in fact—apparently he looked underfed.

With a slight shrug, he reached over towards the basket and pulled it towards him. Opening it, he peered at its contents—a couple of loaves of bread, an assortment of biscuits and some muffins of various flavours, both savoury and sweet. He took one of the savoury muffins and bit into it. It was delicious and, hungry as he was, he soon found himself taking a second one despite himself.

He had almost finished his second muffin when his personal email pinged on his tablet. Curiously, he reached out to view it, but before he could press the little icon at the bottom of the screen, a Skype call started coming through, the screen reading “Caroline Penvenen”. He paused a moment before pressing the “accept” button, and his friend’s broadly grinning face came into view.

Since their time at university, Caroline had earnt herself a degree of fame through her high-flying modelling career, but one wouldn’t have known it from the way she looked now. Curled up on the sofa in the living room of her London apartment, she was dressed in a t-shirt that was a little too big for her, and that George suspected belonged to her fiancé, and a pair of ridiculously fluffy, googly-eyed slippers. Though, considering that he was still wrapped in his dressing gown at ten o’clock in the morning, he was hardly one to talk.

“Hello Caroline.”

“And hello to you too,” said Caroline, her voice a little tinny coming through the tablet. “How’s the holiday going? Have you been climbing up the walls for lack of paperwork yet?”

George let out a soft huff of laughter.

“I’ve managed to restrain myself so far” he returned drily.

Caroline snorted, and was about to reply when his vision of her was suddenly obscured by a very close up view of Horace the pug who, having heard his voice, had located it to its source and had come to say hello.

“Yes, good morning to you as well” he said, amused, as Horace yipped excitedly at him. He could hear Caroline chuckling before the dog was suddenly pulled away from the screen and she settled back down on the sofa, placing him on her lap. He looked up at her with consternation, displeased at having his greeting cut short, but was soon mollified as she began scratching him behind the ear.

“Come on then,” she said once Horace was settled. “Spill the beans. What’s it like over there? How are you doing?”

George shrugged.

“It’s alright,” he said, truthfully. “It’s not exactly the kind of place I’d choose to go on holiday—(he studiously ignored Caroline’s interjection of “as if you’d go on holiday of your own free will in the first place”)—but it’s nice enough. I’ve mostly just been having confectionaries forced on me so far.”

Caroline made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff.

“Only you would think that was something to complain about,” she replied wryly. “Ooh, by the way, you haven’t seen Unwin about, have you? I heard that he recently got elected as the MP for Truro and Falmouth. I bet his campaign would have been a good laugh!”

As a matter of fact, George had not seen Unwin, nor did he particularly wish to. He had first met the man at Oxford, where they had shared several economics classes (Unwin had truly filled the stereotype of the budding politician by doing PPE at university). At some point in their first year, he and Caroline had become a couple, though how Unwin had managed that George still didn’t understand, and had moved into a private flat together near Oxford University Parks. George, after an excruciatingly long summer of being back living with Uncle Cary, and tired of the antics of his fellow students in his university accommodation, had become their unlikely flatmate after his classmate had mentioned offhand to him that they needed someone to take the third, unoccupied room in one of their classes at the beginning of second year, and had promptly spent five or so months being annoyed by the antics of Unwin instead. The man had not lasted long, however, returning to live at college in a strop after he broke up with Caroline, who, among many other things, had not been impressed with his ambivalence towards Horace, then just a puppy and a Christmas addition to their number. After that, his room had been taken up by a kind-hearted medical student named Dwight, who despite having initially got into an endless number of arguments about who left the milk out on the side with Caroline, adored Horace and thus earned her seal of approval. Years later, the two of them were now engaged, and George had jumped on the chance to deliver her a smug “I told you so”, delighted at having the opportunity to tease his friend when it was usually he who was on the receiving end.

They spent a few minutes speculating over what Unwin was doing now, laughing as they remembered some of the more ludicrous of his antics during university. Then, completely out of the blue, Caroline asked him what he was planning on doing that day. He frowned at her. She sounded innocent enough, but he knew her far too well to take that at face value.

“No idea,” he replied, his eyes narrowed slightly in suspicion. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Caroline returned airily, but there was a definite hint of mischief in her tone now. “Just thought you might want some ideas, that’s all. So I gifted you an e-book. It’s got some suggestions for things to do as well so it should take up a fair amount of your time.”

Still watching her suspiciously, George reached out for his kindle, which had been lying next to the tablet. Activating it, he found what he was looking for. His lips pursed. The title on the screen read “ _Taking a Breath: A Comprehensive Guide to Meditation for Workaholics”_.

“Oh very funny” he sighed as Caroline’s cackles filled the room.

 

* * *

 

Come early afternoon, George had found himself back in the little coffee shop which he had met with Francis in the previous day. Still not sure what to do with himself (though he had at least ruled out meditation upon reluctantly skimming a few pages of the rather patronising self-help book Caroline had sent him), he had driven into Truro in the hope that he might find something there to occupy him. He had wandered around aimlessly for a little while, glancing in the windows of shops which he was sure hadn’t been there the last time he had visited Cornwall, but found nothing that particularly interested him. Walking for the sake of it had never been one of his favoured pastimes either, and his feet soon led him back down the hill and towards the harbour, retracing his steps from day before.

Despite having eaten well at breakfast, he ordered a reasonably-sized lunch—a ham toasty accompanied by a truly huge portion of side salad that had him raising his eyebrows as Demelza brought it out to him, and a slice of lemon drizzle cake. Elizabeth had spent a good deal of their conversation the previous day trying to persuade him to return and try it and—well—he was loathe to disappoint her. He ordered another americano along with it—he had never much liked the sweeter options on offer, despite being aware that drinking something with that amount of caffeine in it probably wasn’t going to make him any more relaxed.

The food was excellent, even if the salad was a little excessive. The cake in particular was as good as Elizabeth had said it was, the sponge light and fluffy and moist, hitting just the right balance between sharp and sweet, and George had soon cleared his plate of all but a few crumbs and a small corner of cake that he was too full to finish off. Having finished eating, he pushed his plate away from him, pulled out a rather battered old book that had been gathering dust on his shelf at home and began to read.

“Oh, hello.”

Less than a chapter in, George startled at the sound of the bright, friendly voice, and looked up from his book to see Elizabeth standing in front of him, a warm smile upon her face. For a moment, he felt as if his heart had leapt right up into his throat, before he forcefully shoved it down and summoned up a slightly shy smile of his own.

“Hello,” he said. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m alright,” Elizabeth replied, throwing her surroundings a cursory glance. “I’ve just finished a couple of watercolours I’ve been working on so I thought I’d take a bit of a break. May I join you?”

“Please” said George, gesturing to the empty seat opposite him, immensely glad that he hadn’t had to unstick his throat before speaking this time.

Elizabeth grinned at him and took the chair, peering over at what little remained of his cake.

“I see you’ve branched out to the lemon drizzle cake now,” she teased gently. “Does it meet up to your standards?”

“It does,” returned George with a soft smile. “Though how could it not when I have such a staunch advocate of it sitting in front of me?”

Elizabeth chuckled.

“I only hope I’ve gone it justice” she said.

They spent another few minutes talking about nothing in particular, enjoying the sun and the breeze blowing in from the sea, before Elizabeth asked him if he had any plans for the day. Faced with this question for a second time within the space of a few hours, George found that his answer to her was not much different to that he had given to Caroline.

“Not really,” he admitted. “I only came to Truro in the first place to see if there was something to do here but nothing’s really caught my fancy.”

“Oh well we can’t have that!,” said Elizabeth, smiling brightly at him; he could feel a blush threatening to show on his features, but he forced it down. “Would you like to come with me? I could show you some places if you like. I mean,” she added hastily, suddenly looking as shy as he felt, “I’m sure you must have been to Truro plenty of times before, but well, it’s changed a lot in recent years but if you don’t—”

“No! I mean yes. Yes, I’d love to” he was quick to reassure her, desperately wishing that he that he could have sounded collected and confident rather than stumbling over his words like an awkward teenager. Elizabeth, however, sent him a broad grin, and any hint of embarrassment flew from his mind. He couldn’t help but think that, where she had been beautiful before, she now looked positively radiant.

“Oh wonderful!,” she said. “I’ve just got to nip into the art shop first though—some of my brushes are beginning to wear down and I need some more white. You don’t mind coming with, do you?”

George didn’t mind, and they soon set off in the direction of the art supply shop, Elizabeth talking animatedly about her favourite media and techniques as they headed into the heart of the town. George only understood about half of it, but he listened attentively, intrigued, nonetheless—art had always been one of those subjects which he found very interesting but knew next to nothing about.

His feelings of simultaneous bafflement and fascination only increased once they reached the art store itself, which was filled to the brim with all different kinds of paints, pencils, pens, paper and a good many other things which he had never even seen before, let alone knew what they were for. Elizabeth, headed straight over to a shelf on the far wall where there sat a number of paintbrushes of various different sizes and shapes. According to Elizabeth’s explanations, there were different brushes for different paints, though George couldn’t tell the difference between them beyond the colours of the handles and the signs on the shelves that indicated which was for which. After a slight pause, Elizabeth selected two very fine brushes which were supposedly for watercolours then, retrieved a small tube of white paint from where it was hanging on the adjacent wall, before going up to the till to pay. Putting her purchases carefully away in her bag, she turned to him and nodded her head towards the door with a slight smile, and they walked out of the shop and back into the street.

Despite having done essentially the same thing not two hours beforehand, George found that walking around Truro, looking in shop windows and ferreting out places of interest was a much more enjoyable experience with Elizabeth by his side, pointing out shops or little alleyways with a story to tell about each of them that never failed to interest or entertain him. First, she took him to a little independent bookshop that he had never noticed before, and though he usually had very little time for reading, he couldn’t help but find it rather charming—it suited her very well, he couldn’t help but think as he watched her excitedly unearth a beautifully illustrated copy of _The Wind in the Willows_ from one of the shelves.

“My cousin will love this,” she told him as they stepped back outside, blinking against the sudden brightness of the sun compared to the half-darkness of the shop. “It was her favourite book when she was little, and she loves illustrations. She’s just started at art school this year,” she added upon spotting his inquiring look. “Turns nineteen next month. She wants to be a children’s book illustrator.”

“Does art run in the family then?”

“Oh, not as such, no,” Elizabeth laughed. “Just me and Morwenna. Her sister Rowella’s about as scientific as they come—wants to do physics at uni—and my dad could only just about manage stick men.”

From there they headed off to the museum and art gallery, where she pointed out her favourite pieces to him, telling him a story about how she had once visited the place as a child with a young Francis, Verity and Ross, the latter of whom had thrown an enormous tantrum upon realising that they hadn’t had time for cake, and had complained the whole way home that he’d been forced to stare at pots in glass cases for hours without the slightest reward for his troubles. Her rendition of the incident had him shaking with suppressed laughter, attempting to keep quiet upon noticing an elderly couple a little way along from them were sending them a series of slightly disapproving glances.

Once they had done a full circuit of the museum, they simply wandered, not paying a great deal of mind to where they were going. They ended up walking past the cathedral and up a side street, where a couple of offices were located. The sign on one of them caught his attention, and he stopped to read it.

“Oh, that’s our MP’s office,” Elizabeth said offhandedly when she glanced over to see why he had stopped. “Unwin Trevaunance, you know?”

George thought of his conversation with Caroline earlier that day and he chuckled softly to himself. Elizabeth shot him a curious look.

“Oh sorry,” he said by way of explanation. “It’s just that my friend and I were talking about him this morning—we used to live with him at university.”

Elizabeth seemed particularly interested by this, and he soon ended up telling her the whole story of how they had ended up sharing a flat, along with a good deal of the more bizarre of the man’s habit. The story of how he had once put his slippers in the oven in the hope of warming them up during a particularly cold spell especially amused her, and she was still giggling about it once they had left the office well behind them.

“Oh, I’ll never be able to read his manifesto with a straight face again” she declared with a grin. “But anyway, what did you study? Francis mentioned that you went to Oxford but he never said what you did there.“

“Economics and Management,” George replied. “Sounds boring, I know.”

He himself had never found it dull of course, but it had never been entirely his choice to take it. Sometimes he wondered if, had he been given the option, he would have liked to have done something else entirely—Caroline, who had done French and Classics, had always seemed to have particularly interesting classes, and he had quite liked the look of the History course when he had first thought of applying—but his uncle had made it firmly known to him that as he would inherit his father’s business, there was no point in wasting his time on what he called “wishy-washy namby-pamby subjects”. In all honesty, the thing he had liked best about his degree was that he had been good at it. He had enjoyed the feeling of excelling at something—something that he could build on in the real world. And besides, he had been too relieved that he had been accepted in the first place to second-guess his choice of course—he had seen Charles Poldark’s poor reaction to Francis failing to get in and, though he had felt sorry for his friend, hadn’t been able to help imagining how badly Cary would have taken it if he had gone to Bristol instead.

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t,” said Elizabeth, a friendly smile playing upon her lips. “I would have loved to study at Oxford. It’s such a beautiful place—so much history. I went to London myself, and—well, no doubt you know what it’s like. It’s great if you want to be in the centre of things—lots of culture, lots of entertainment—but a lot of the time I really missed the countryside, you know? Besides, you can’t exactly punt on the Thames.”

George let out a soft hum of amusement.

“The punting’s a bit overrated to be honest,” he replied. “I mean, it’s great in theory but not so much in practice—unless you get a professional to take you of course. But even then there’s always the people who don’t want to pay the extra five pounds or think they’ll be fine doing it themselves. The Cherwell’s complete Bedlam on a nice day.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“A friend of mine did that in Cambridge, and they ended up crashing into the riverbank and all got slapped in the face by a load of wet willow branches. She swore that if she ever did it again, she’d pay the extra money to be punted by someone else in future.”

“A wise decision, no doubt,” snorted George, thinking of the many similar scenes he had witnessed in his time at university. “But what about you? Where in London did you study?”

She went on to tell him about her own time at university. It turned out that she had done a degree in Fine Art at UCL, though it was clear that despite all the galleries and shops and theatres she had been able to go to whilst in London, she had not enjoyed living there very much.

“I just got tired of it all in the end, I suppose,” she said with a shrug, “so I came back here. It’s such an amazing place—there’s so much inspiration for me here, so many beautiful places to paint. And anyway, I always miss the sea when I’m away.”

The day came to an end far too soon in George’s opinion, and it was with some disappointment that he said goodbye to her late into the afternoon as they stood by his car, parked up the hill in the same place as the day before, when he had come to meet Francis. Judging by Elizabeth’s expression, he dared hope that she too was a little reluctant to leave. He was proven right when she asked if he would like to meet again a couple of days from now, and suggested that they exchange numbers to arrange a time and a place. He could only hope that he didn’t seem too enthusiastic, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind, beaming at him, and he couldn’t help but respond in turn.

“I had a really lovely time today” she said and, before he could reply, she had darted forward and pressed a swift, gentle kiss to his cheek, given him a shy smile and a “I’ll see you soon” before turning and heading off down the hill with a wave. Once she was completely out of sight, George sank down into the driver’s seat of his car, fingertips ghosting over the arch of his cheekbone, feeling a little stunned. Only later did it occur to him that it was the second time in two days that he had sat in his car on that hill, grinning like a fool, but he couldn’t for the life of him bring himself to care.


	3. Chapter 3

The wheels of Elizabeth’s car crunched over gravel as she slowed to a stop on the private driveway leading up to Trenwith. Most of the house and grounds were open to the public now, as first Charles and then Francis had been forced to sell off more and more of the estate as a result of the Poldarks’ ever declining finances. Now, it being a Saturday, the grounds were full of dogwalkers and picnicking families, and the house full of sightseers oohing and aahing at the stately interiors. There was still a small part of the house that belonged to the family, however, and as a close friend, it was Elizabeth’s privilege to bypass the crowds and the entrance fees to visit them whenever she pleased.

Today, she was here to see her best friend, Verity, who, much to her regret, she had not spent much time with in a good long while. She loved her friend dearly, but unfortunately, her time had been taken up by a particularly large and challenging (though well-paid) commission, and she had not seen much of anyone whilst she was working on it. Now that it was finished, and she did not yet have a new commission to occupy her time, she was eager to catch up with all her friends as best as possible.

Stepping out of the car, she headed up to the little side door in a quiet corner of the house, where members of the public were not permitted to go. Verity was standing there, waiting for her, and when she reached it, she greeted her with a warm hug. She was dressed very prettily, Elizabeth noticed, in a pale, high-necked summer dress, patterned with small light pink and blue flowers, along with a pair of strappy sandals.

“Oh Elizabeth, how are you?!,” she exclaimed, pulling back from the hug and moving aside to let her pass. “Come in! Come in!”

The doorway took her into a well-lit, rustic kitchen with a large, round wooden table sat in the middle of the room. She headed straight over to it and took the chair nearest to the window which she had subconsciously began to think of as hers whenever she visited, too well-practised at their usual routine to second-guess herself. Verity closed the door behind her and walked over to the kettle, taking it over to the sink and filling it up with water.

“Tea, Elizabeth?” she asked, almost as an afterthought. They both knew what her answer was going to be.

“Oh yes please!”

Verity bustled about the kitchen for a bit, making the tea, and when that was done, she came over to the table with two steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits and sat down opposite Elizabeth, placing them carefully in front of her.

“There you go,” she said, sliding the left-hand mug over to Elizabeth. “Milk and one sugar—just how you like it.”

“Thanks Verity” Elizabeth murmured, taking the mug and blowing on it to cool it down.

“So…I have news” Verity said suddenly, and it was clear from her demeanour that she had been buzzing to say this ever since Elizabeth had arrived. She was cradling her own mug between her hands where it sat on the table in front of her, and Elizabeth suddenly noticed that she was wearing a ring on her right hand that she had never seen before. A ring that looked suspiciously like—

“Oh Verity, is that—?!” she cried excitedly.

Verity beamed, her eyes alight with happiness.

“Andrew proposed at the weekend,” she said, glancing fondly down at the elegant engagement ring on her finger, “and, well, I suppose you can guess what my answer was.”

“Oh Verity, that’s wonderful! I’m so happy for you! Do you know when you’ll be tying the knot yet?”

“No, we’re just seeing how it goes at the moment,” replied Verity with a laugh. “To be honest, I’m surprised that Francis has been so calm about it all, but I think he’s beginning to warm to Andrew. And besides, he wants to properly introduce me to his family, and I’d like to get to know the kids a bit better before we jump straight into anything. I quite like the idea of a spring wedding though. Perhaps I’ll have a talk with him about it.”

Andrew Blamey, a police officer who had moved to Cornwall with his two children after the disastrous breakdown of his first marriage, had been Verity’s on-and-off boyfriend for quite some years now. They had first met at a party in Truro, and ever since then their relationship had been beset by obstacles, the biggest of which had been Verity’s father, Charles, and then Francis. Neither had much liked or trusted Blamey in light of the rumours surrounding his first marriage and ugly divorce, but it seemed that Francis was now beginning to open up to the possibility of having him for a brother-in-law. That, along with the new lease of life that he seemed to have been experiencing recently, Elizabeth suspected, had at least something to do with him meeting Demelza, although she doubted she’d ever get him to admit it.

They spent a pleasant afternoon chatting about what little wedding plans Verity and her new fiancé had come up with, and about her soon-to-be stepchildren. Both were almost adults now, James intending to follow in his father’s footsteps and join the police force, and his sister Esther was looking to go to university.

“It sounds like she’s thinking of going north to study,” Verity said as she dipped a biscuit in her tea. “York seems to be the one she’s got her eye on. I suppose she wants to see some new horizons—I wish I’d gone a bit further afield than Bristol for my degree to be honest—though I do reckon Andrew will miss her when she goes.”

Elizabeth nodded thoughtfully. She herself had thought going to live in London to be a big adventure at the age of eighteen, though she had soon found that it hadn’t exactly been her cup of tea. Her thoughts wandered back to her conversation with George the previous day, and she wondered if he liked living there at all. By all accounts he didn’t come back to Cornwall very often, but she knew very well how easy it was to get swept up in the life of the city, especially when one was in as busy and demanding a profession as he was. Quite frankly she thought she would have gone mad in his position, though he seemed to manage it very well.

A slight smile began to creep over her features as she thought of their time spent in Truro together the previous day. She had enjoyed herself a great deal, just walking and talking with him and showing him the sights. George was simultaneously exactly and not at all like what she had been expecting from what she had heard about him from Francis and, to a lesser extent, Ross. From that, she had got the impression that he must be a clever, rather reserved, serious man whose dedication to his work bordered on excess. He certainly was all those things, of course, but there was a great deal under the surface which she found to be a pleasant surprise. Their acquaintance so far may have been a brief one, but it was clear that he was both very intelligent and very interested in what she had to say. It was nice having someone to speak to who was not only willing but eager to listen to her just as much as she was to him—it had always felt rather one-sided with Ross after all. She hoped that he would come back to Cornwall more often in future, but for the moment she would content herself with the time they had now, if he was willing. From the look in his eyes when she had kissed him on the cheek the day before, she suspected that he would be, and her smile broadened at the thought.

“What are you grinning about?” Verity asked her, a hint of curious laughter in her voice as she regarded her quizzically.

“Oh nothing,” Elizabeth replied, lifting her mug to her lips to hide her smile. “It’s just been a good few days—that’s all.”

 

* * *

 

It was a warm, sunny evening on Rowantree Farm, and George was taking advantage of the pleasant weather by sitting out in the large, spacious garden of the little holiday cottage, stretched out on a deckchair on the small patio, a cool glass of lemonade sat on the square wooden table beside him. He had spent most of the afternoon there, working his way steadily through the book he had started the day before, sheltered by the parasol in the middle of the table, but now that the glare of the midday sun had faded into the soft, warm light of the summer evening, he could comfortably sit shaded only by the outlying branches of the large beech tree which grew beside the house, casting dappled shadows over his face as he read. The fragrant smell of night-time flowers lingered on the edge of his senses, the rushing murmur of birds’ wings as they flocked to roost whispering in his ears, and he didn’t think he had ever felt so relaxed in years. That, he decided, he could never mention in earshot of his secretary, or else she might make a habit of forcing him into taking three-week long country retreats on a regular basis. And besides, she could undoubtedly be unbearable if proven right.

He suspected, however, that the holiday on its own was not the cause of his current state. Under any other circumstances, he would likely have been wearing a hole in the living room rug, frustrated and anxious over having been cut out of the loop with regards to what was happening at the Bank. Of course, he still _was_ frustrated and anxious about it, but he found, much to his surprise, that it was much more difficult to work himself into a frenzy over what may or may not be happening back in London when he had certain other thoughts on his mind.

For years, the business—his work—had been just about the only thing he had cared to occupy his time with, but now he found himself keeping his phone by his side at all times not in the hope that he might be contacted by Ms Collings, or by Tankard, or Blythe or any of his other colleagues, but that he might receive a call from Elizabeth. Despite having only just met, he could not deny that he liked her a lot. She was kind and sensitive and intelligent, and surprisingly easy to simply be around, without performing or pretending or playing the role he was so used to assuming in the company of others. There were precious few that he knew with whom he could talk so comfortably, and none so quickly into their acquaintance as her—not even Francis, who he had been friends with since their schooldays.

His phone, sat on the table beside his half empty glass of lemonade, buzzed suddenly and, immediately afterwards, George couldn’t help but feel a little embarrassed at how quickly he had snatched for it. Typing in his password, he saw that he had a text. His heart sank so low that it felt as if it could have bypassed his stomach. It was not from Elizabeth. It was not even from Ms Collings. It was from his uncle.

_I’ve heard you’re staying down here._

The brusque tone, the abrupt words, the lack of niceties were all typical of Cary. Even in writing he managed to give off an air of permanent bad temper. George swallowed, the good mood which he had been feeling for the pat couple of days instantly evaporating. How should he respond? He hadn’t spoken with his uncle about anything other than business in years. And what did he mean by it anyway, contacting him after so long? Did he want to see him? Did he want to know if George wanted to see _him_? Did he even care either way? And more to the point, how was he meant to glean any of that from one sparse text?

“Oh for God’s sake, stop being so pathetic and just answer it” he snapped to himself, typing out an even more brusque reply and pressing send before he could second-guess himself.

_Yes._

_God don’t say too much, George. I won’t be able to get a word i _n edgew_ ays._

George cringed at the familiar scathing, sneering tone. Perhaps he should just ignore it. But no, he couldn’t do that. If he didn’t reply, Cary would know that he had been cowed by his words, and besides, as much as he wanted to avoid his uncle, he had never been one to run when confronted. With that in mind, he typed out a second reply, staring at it for a few moments before pressing send.

_Was there something you wanted to talk about?_

_Are you coming here at all?_

George understood that to mean whether or not he was coming to visit him at Cardew. His teeth worried at his bottom lip as he thought it over. Did he want to visit Cary? In all honestly, not really. Even if he hadn’t disliked his uncle on grounds of personality, their inability to communicate would undoubtedly have worn him down enough for him to need another three weeks of holiday to alleviate all the extra stress it would cause.

_Do you want me to?_

He waited nervously for the reply, desperately wishing that he didn’t care so much about what Cary might say. But he couldn’t deny it, no matter how much he hated it. Was it so unnatural to hope that his only living relative might want to see him even a little? He briefly wondered if his uncle felt the same way about his own avoidance of him, but he somehow doubted it. Cary had never much cared for his company when he had lived with him after all. Why should that have changed now?

_Do what you like._

Despite not being able to hear the man’s voice, George felt the cold indifference in the man’s tone loud and clear. He swallowed, blinking rapidly, before slamming the phone facedown on the table, causing the glass of lemonade to teeter dangerously, but he spared it little mind—he wasn’t thirsty anymore anyway. Why should he care what the man thought or wanted? And why had he even bothered to contact him in the first place if he didn’t care what he did? Why did he have to intrude on his peace and ruin everything when he had been perfectly fine as he was?

“Penny for ‘em?”

George started. Prudie Paynter, the owner of the cottage, had just appeared around the corner of the house, a wicker hamper clutched in her large hands. She was wearing a slightly questioning look on her round face, and he realised she must have seen his brief fit of temper. He swallowed again, before forcing a smile. From her dubious expression, he guessed that it did not appear remotely convincing.

“Oh it’s…ah…it’s nothing important,” he began, but upon seeing her beady-eyed look, realised he probably wasn’t going to get a moment’s peace until she drew the truth out of him. “It’s just a small thing…my uncle…well it doesn’t matter anyway.”

If it had been anybody else, he might have been more surprised by her sudden appearance in the garden. It was not the first time that she had done this, however. He had very quickly discovered that Mrs Paynter was the kind of person who liked to talk a great deal, and didn’t particularly mind if she did the majority of the heavy lifting in the conversation. He had also discovered that she was what a charitable person would have called “inquisitive”, but what he called “nosy”, and that that particular trait was capable of overriding the first at any time. The former he didn’t mind so much—her chatter had given him something other than his frustration over the lack of work to occupy him when he had had nothing to do—but the latter rather alarmed him. He had always been a private person, and to suddenly find himself under such scrutiny made him very uncomfortable.

Mrs Paynter watched him narrowly for a moment but, much to his relief, didn’t pry any further. Instead, she placed the hamper down on the table beside him, drew up another patio chair next to his, sat down and said, “have a muffin.”

“I—excuse me?”

“Have a muffin” Mrs Paynter repeated, nodding towards the hamper. George reached out and opened the lid. He raised his eyebrows at the contents. It was full to the brim with muffins.

“I…Mrs Paynter, as much as I appreciate this, I don’t think there’s enough meals in the day for me to eat all the food you’ve been giving me” he said.

Mrs Paynter snorted.

“Then I’d better have one too, hadn’t I?”

And with that, she leaned right over him, whipped a ridiculously chocolatey muffin out of the hamper and bit into it. George simply stared at her.

“Well go on then,” she said to him once she had swallowed. “You’re as skinny as a twig. A few muffins aren’t going to do you any harm.”

George blinked, shrugged and then took a muffin from the hamper himself. This one was sweet rather than savoury, but it was just as good as the two that he had had the previous day.

“These are excellent, Mrs Paynter,” he said. “Do you make them yourself?”

“Myself and Jinny, aye.”

Jinny Carter, along with her husband Jim, was a tenant and worker on the farm. He had met the pair of them when he had first arrived. Both were very kind and friendly, though far more reserved than their landlady.

“To tell ‘ee the truth, I used to be an awful cook,” Mrs Paynter mused, staring at her half-eaten muffin with a thoughtful look on her face. “Couldn’t even microwave a lasagne without cremating it. I got better when my old husband left though. Had more time to practise, I guess.”

“Oh…I’m sorry…” George said falteringly. He didn’t have the slightest idea of how to respond to this new information.

“I’m not,” she scoffed. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from that lout buggering off to God knows where, its that he was always holding me back. I can’t be doing with that anymore. Some people…they’re just not worth our time. Better to focus on the people that are.”

She gave him a very pointed look as she said this, and he shifted uncomfortably. He got the distinct impression that she was no longer talking just about herself and her ex-husband anymore. Briefly, he wondered how she could have figured out his thoughts about his uncle based on his short, floundering explanation earlier in the conversation, but Cary was somewhat infamous in Cornwall, and between that and his reaction to his texts, he supposed it wouldn’t have been that difficult to work out.

“I…” For the second time in quick succession, he found himself completely at a loss for what to say, not least because he could not deny that there was a definite grain of truth to the statement, and not just with regards to his uncle. He had spent so much of his life trying to please people who were never going to be pleased, living up to expectations and proving people wrong in equal measure, trying so hard to make something of himself that everything else had just…fallen by the wayside. For the first time in years, a niggle of doubt began to worm its way into his mind, and he wondered if he had perhaps become too focused on that goal. Had he, in his efforts, lost sight of what was truly important to him?

Mrs Paynter seemed to sense his discomfort, and she quickly turned the conversation to lighter topics. As it turned out, her having been employed at Nampara as a cleaner for some years had allowed her to collect an impressive number of amusing stories about the young Poldark children. From there on, George spent an enjoyable evening eating muffins and gathering material with which he would greatly enjoy teasing Francis with. The sense of unease hadn’t entirely gone, however, lurking under the surface no matter how much he tried to shake it off.

“Mister Ross has gone off to America now of course,” Mrs Paynter remarked, chewing pensively on a muffin. “I don’t think he ever comes back anymore. But I think Cornwall was always too small for him—or perhaps he was too big for Cornwall if you see what I mean.”

George nodded. Ross, for all that it had been his inheritance, had never been made for a quiet life in the country.

“Although I suppose you’d know about that just as well,” she continued, casting him a shrewd glance, “what with all that time in London. I reckon your secretary’s got the right idea about it though—some time away from all them fumes and noises and people, it’ll do you good. Everyone needs a break sometimes.”

George was still thinking about her words as he got ready for bed, stripping off his shirt and jeans and slipping under the thin covers, allowing the warm night air to waft over him from the open window. Had he been like Ross, running off to bigger horizons to chase his goals at the expense of his old connections back home? Well, he hadn’t lost contact with Francis at least, but before he had come here for this holiday, when was the last time they had spoken face to face?

He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and trying to shake the unwelcome thoughts out of his head. He would never get to sleep if he kept on like this. With a soft sigh, he rolled over onto his side and groped for his phone in the darkness, intending to check the time. Once he had found it, he realised with a jolt that he had been sent another text. This one, however, was far more welcome than his uncle’s sneering words.

_Hi. I hope you had a good day! Would you like to meet for lunch tomorrow? I have a meeting with someone in the morning but I’m free afterwards. -Elizabeth. Xx_

George’s spirits instantly lifted. Well, he couldn’t change the past, he thought as he typed out a reply, but there was nothing to stop him from making the most of the present.

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Oh very well, you win” Elizabeth sighed at the large oncoming tractor that had been sitting defiantly in the middle of the little lane leading up to Rowantree Farm, waiting for her and the two other cars behind her to give in and back up into the closest passing place so that it could continue on its journey. Though she loved her home county with all her heart, the one thing she had never much liked about it was the inevitable standoffs one always found oneself in should they need to drive along any of the narrow roads that made up a large part of the countryside. She had grown used to it over the years, of course—she had once got stuck behind a fifteen-minute standoff between two overly stubborn tractor drivers, which had been frustrating to say the least—but it didn’t mean that she enjoyed the prospect any more than she had as a nervous young girl learning to drive for the first time. Just that she was better at dealing with it.

She backed carefully into the passing place that she had driven by a little way back, much to the chagrin of the people behind her, who then had to follow suit, and allowed the tractor to trundle slowly past. Even with her own car pressed almost right into the high hedge at the side of the road, it was a tight squeeze, and Elizabeth couldn’t help but wince as it passed by far too close for comfort. Once it was gone, she gingerly manoeuvred the car out of the passing place and back out into the road, hoping that she wouldn’t have to do that again for some time, though she realised all too well that she was being optimistic to the point of wishful thinking on that score. 

She and George had spent a fair amount of the first week of his holiday in each other’s company, having now shared several lunches and pleasant afternoons together. The day before, however, she had suggested that they do something a little different. Now that the summer was here, she was keen to take advantage of the good weather in the time before the kids broke up from school to go down to the beach and paint a few seascapes, and she had asked George if he would like to come with her for the day. He had agreed, and so they had made arrangements for her to pick him up from the farm the next morning.

Well, made arrangements was perhaps not the right phrase, she considered as she turned left into the drive leading up to the farmhouse and cottage, watching in amusement as one of the farm’s sheepdogs came bounding up to the car to greet it. George had protested, not wanting to feel as if he were imposing on her by making her go out of her way to pick him up, but Elizabeth’s greater experience with driving along the narrow lanes of rural Cornwall had effectively settled the matter.

The dog followed her as she pulled into the drive of the holiday cottage beside George’s sleek black car, and as soon as she had stepped out of the door, she was beset by an excitedly barking whirl of hair. She laughed in delight, stroking the collie’s thick, soft fur as its tail wagged frantically and it strained to lick her face.

“Oh I’m sorry, miss! Bessie, down!”

The dog barked in consternation but complied nevertheless, tail still wagging furiously, and Elizabeth glanced up to see a young man who she knew by sight as Jim Carter rushing towards her with an apologetic look on his kind face. He bent down and took hold of the dog, apparently named Bessie, patting her gently on the head.

“Sorry about that, miss,” he said again. “Bessie’s super friendly but she wants to say hello to everyone she meets. She can give some people a bit of a fright.”

“Oh it’s alright—I don’t mind,” laughed Elizabeth. She adored all animals but she loved dogs especially—she had always wanted a dog as a child but her mother hadn’t wanted a puppy messing up her nice clean house. “Can I?”

“Oh, of course” said Jim, and Elizabeth reached out to scratch Bessie behind the ear. She was a lovely dog—all bright blue eyes and fine, soft fur patched with black and white.

“Aren’t you beautiful? Yes, yes you are!”

“Having fun there?”

Elizabeth jumped at the sound of the voice and turned around to see George standing in the open doorway of the cottage, leaning casually against the frame with a soft, affectionate smile on his face. He was looking very handsome, she noticed, dressed in a pair of thin, dark jeans, a crisp white shirt and a tan jacket which nicely complemented his neat blond hair. Her eyes couldn’t help but travel up and down his form, coming to rest on the long line of his throat where it was exposed by the open collar of his shirt, and she blushed slightly.

“Oh yes,” she replied with a teasing grin. “I think I’ll just take Bessie to the beach instead.”

Both George and Jim chuckled at that.

“Usurped by a dog—oof!”

Elizabeth burst out laughing. Bessie, having just spotted George, had chosen that exact moment to turn her enthusiasm on him, and had practically tried to leap into his arms.

 

* * *

 

They set of awhile afterwards, the car followed all the way down the drive by a disappointed Bessie and a slightly harassed-looking Jim, who managed to catch her just before she left the farm entirely. Luckily, no more tractors appeared to force them back into any passing places, and from there on the journey went fairly smoothly.

“Where exactly did you have in mind?” George asked curiously as thy turned onto a main road, heading south, and it occurred to Elizabeth that, though she had suggested a trip to the beach, she hadn’t specified which one.

“I was thinking Nampara Cove,” she said, tapping out a soft rhythm on the steering wheel as she drove. “Not a lot of people go there since it’s not too easy to get to compared to some of the larger beaches, so it’s always pretty quiet. I thought we could have a picnic.”

“You can go to Nampara Cove now?,” replied George with a slight frown. “I thought it was Poldark land.”

“Oh it was. Ross sold it all when he moved to America so it’s all public access now. People tend to go to Hendrawna for their days out though since it’s bigger.”

“And because it’s easier to get to?,” said George, and she noticed there was a hint of apprehension in his tone as he spoke. “How difficult is Nampara Cove to get down to?”

“Oh not very difficult really,” replied Elizabeth airily, keen to put his worries at rest. “The path down from the cliffs is just a bit steep and rough in some places. It’s not a problem unless you’ve got a pushchair or a wheelchair, but a lot of people don’t want the bother of getting down there and then back up again when they could go to somewhere that’s a bit quicker to get to. And besides, Hendrawna’s closer to the teashop so people tend to gather there in hordes.”

“There’s a teashop?”

“Oh yes. They do cream teas there, and earl grey as well, so that should keep you happy!”

George chuckled. He had confessed to her after lunch in the coffee shop in Truro that he had always been more of a tea drinker himself, at which point she had correctly guessed his favourite blend on the first attempt. She had been insisting that she’d make sure he’d get his cup of earl grey at some point in the holiday ever since.

“I’m sure I shan’t need tea for that” he said with a gentle, sincere smile, and Elizabeth ducked her head slightly to disguise the shy grin that was beginning to creep over her features.

A short while later, they pulled into the little carpark beside the viewing point on the clifftops above Nampara Cove. It was a glorious day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless and the sea below a deep, rich blue. As Elizabeth stepped out of the car, she took in a deep breath of fresh, salty air, the wind whipping through her curls, carrying the calls of seabirds up from the rocks beneath them to the cliff path. George followed suit, glancing around him, eyes squinted against the glare of the sun.

“Could you carry the picnic stuff?,” she called to him, moving to open the boot of her car. “I need to get my equipment.”

“Your equipment?”

“Yes, my climbing equipment,” Elizabeth couldn’t quite resist teasing him as he followed her to the back of the car. “I lied about the path. We’re going to have to abseil down.”

George let out a soft huff of laughter as she pulled the boot open, handing him the hamper and blankets.

“No, I meant my easel and stuff,” she said, taking out the item in question and tucking it under her arm. “It’s not a very big one but it’s a bit awkward to carry when I’ve got a lot of other stuff.”

They headed carefully down the cliff path, Elizabeth leading at the front and George cautiously picking his way over the gritty, rocky ground behind her. Eventually, they reached the beach itself—a long, curved, sheltered strip of land which was, to her surprise, completely abandoned save for themselves. Elizabeth smiled as she stepped onto the soft yellow sand at the beach’s edge, turning back to watch as George joined her. His usually neat hair had been ruffled by the wind on the way down and was sticking up in all directions. His cheeks flushed with a soft pink and his blue eyes bright, she thought the look suited him very well.

At Elizabeth’s direction, he laid out the picnic blanket on a dry patch of sand in the middle of the beach and they both sat down, enjoying the gentle, cool breeze now that they were sheltered by the cliffs and the soft lull of the waves lapping gently against wet sand. Once they were settled, they dived straight into the picnic, enjoying the food that Elizabeth had prepared, laughing and chatting about nothing in particular. Then, once that was finished, Elizabeth set up her easel and paints, taking out a sheet of watercolour paper and sticking it methodically to the board with masking tape, and began to sketch out a rough outline of the view before her.

“You’re very quiet” she commented after a while, just as she was beginning to mix up a soft, light blue for the sky on her palette.

“Oh, I thought you’d want to concentrate on the painting,” she heard George reply from beside her, and she turned to look at him where he was laying on his side, head propped up on his hand and watching her mix her colours with interest. “Do you…?”

“Oh, I do these all the time,” Elizabeth replied with a nonchalant shrug, moving to apply the colour to the paper she had coated with water just moments beforehand. With a long, broad stroke, she watched in satisfaction as the colour bled freely from the brush and across the page. “They’re just quick little things so I’m fine talking and painting at the same time.”

Her practised hand filled in the sky quickly and easily, and she mixed a newer, darker shade on the palette, replacing her large, square-headed brush with a small, thin, pointed one to add some darker highlights to the edges.

“So, do you sell all of these?” George asked, his eyes following the process as she dabbed off some of the excess water with a tissue to create a slight mottling effect.

“Yes, usually,” she replied. “You can actually make a fair bit of money on things like this if you’re smart enough about it. I’ve got an online shop where I sell all my prints so I get money from them there, but there’s a big market for art cards and postcards and all those sorts of things, especially in somewhere like Cornwall during the big tourist seasons, so I can often get them sold in those forms in visitor centres and places like that as souvenirs. Tourists like that—Cornish places painted by Cornish artists and all that. And of course that helps promote my art as well, so it becomes more visible for anyone who might want to request a big commission.”

George nodded thoughtfully, his eyes following her brushstrokes as she moved onto the beach at the bottom of the picture, filling in the space with a soft ochre.

“And do you always use these kinds of paints for them or…?”

“Oh, yes I tend to use watercolours when I’m out and about,” Elizabeth replied, blending in a soft blue grey into the point where the sand met the sea. “You don’t really need a lot of extra stuff like you do with oils and they’re easier to get off than acrylics so they’re quite easy to bring with me to places like this—and they dry pretty quickly as well so that’s a bonus. They’re my favourite medium to take about with me if I want a colour picture. I mean, I suppose you can get stuff like watercolour pencils and markers and everything now and they’re very easy to carry around with you but I’ve tried them and they’re just not the same.”

“Really? How come?”

She paused to think about how to word her answer, her brush now picking out patterns as she drew long, undulating strokes along the paper, filling in the shimmering blue of the waves. The paint bled, leaving feathery little lines in the white of the blank spaces, but she did nothing to stop them, allowing them to create the effect of the frothing white heads of the waves as they rolled in over the sand.

“I think it’s to do with how you apply them on the canvas,” she said pensively, adding a darker blue to the edges of the shapes created by the larger brush, highlighting the white. “You usually add the water afterwards with pencils or markers, but even if you put the water on first and then draw over it, you’ve still got more control over the shapes you’re making. When you paint with watercolours rather than draw with them, you need a lot of water to get the right colours and consistency so they really flow and spread and blend on the page, and because of that they sort of create patterns and shapes on their own. You really have to work alongside the paints rather than just using them, if you see what I mean, and, well, I guess that some artists don’t like that so much but it’s always been something that appeals to me.”

She cut herself off, her cheeks reddening slightly as she realised just how much she was yammering on about something he probably wasn’t very interested in. When she turned to look at him, however, he was wearing an expression of open fascination on his face, his bright blue eyes alert and curious. All of a sudden, her attention was pulled away from the painting entirely, and all she could focus on was him—the soft look in his eyes, the way the light played across his skin, the stray lock of hair that had fallen across his brow, unsettled by the wind. Before she could stop herself, she had reached out and brushed it away from his face, fingertips ghosting over the soft strands and trailing down over the arch of his cheekbone. He stilled at the touch, his eyes wide, but he did not pull away.

“Your painting will dry out” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“It’s nothing I can’t fix” murmured Elizabeth, and with that, she leaned down and kissed him.

His lips were soft as they parted underneath her own in a quiet gasp. It didn’t take long for him to respond, however, the hand that wasn’t propping himself up coming up to cup the back of her neck. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt his fingertips stroke gently along the sensitive skin below her hairline, and she shifted closer to him, eyelids fluttering closed. Her own hand moved to cradle his cheek, her thumb stroking a soothing rhythm over the smooth skin, and he sighed into her mouth as she slipped her fingers into his soft hair, titling his head back and pressing herself flush against him.

Eventually, they both had to come up for air, and they broke apart, breathing heavily. George glanced up at her through his long lashes, lips parted, suddenly shy. His cheeks were dusted with pink, gaze soft and a little dazed and, with an affectionate smile creeping over her face, she couldn’t help but lean down and kiss him again, all else forgotten in favour of the feel of his silky hair and soft skin and his lips moving gently against hers.

As it turned out, George had been quite correct in predicting that her painting would dry out—not that that surprised her. It was hardly a disaster, however, and she managed to complete it well enough, filling in the highlights and shadows and details, and finally painting in two little dark blue figures along the shoreline in the distance once the rest of it had finished drying. Turning back to George as she peeled the masking tape from the edges of the paper and pulled it away from the easel, she noticed that she noticed that the fascination on his face had returned, coupled by a look which could only be described as admiration.

“I don’t understand how you can do that,” he confessed upon seeing her questioning look. “How you can go from nothing to something like that in such a short space of time.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but beam at the praise. It was always nice to hear her work complimented, of course, but coming from him it just sounded so sincere and genuine that she couldn’t be anything but delighted by it.

“Would you like to have a go?”

George huffed in amusement, raising an incredulous eyebrow at her.

“Well, if you want me to waste your paper,” he said wryly. “I’m afraid I’ve never had much of an artistic touch.”

Elizabeth tutted.

“I’m sure you underestimate yourself,” she replied, moving over to allow him to sit in front of the easel. “And besides, it’s never too late to learn. Here, I’ll show you.”

It turned out that, though it was clear that fine art didn’t come particularly naturally to him, George was not nearly as bad as artist as he thought himself to be. He had a good eye for detail and colour, even if he lacked the knowledge and experience to express them on paper. He did struggle a little with the blending and the larger, broader strokes, although she suspected tat had something to do with the arm she had wound around his waist, pressing close against his back as she reached over to gently guide his hand over the page. Both their efforts began to deteriorate from there, distracted from the painting in favour of pressing soft little kisses to each other’s lips, nestled close against one another, and were abandoned entirely when, with Elizabeth laughing into the skin of his neck, George threw up his hands and painted two large stickmen over the half-finished image.

“Well I’m not sure how successful that was” he chuckled, leaning back against her as she tightened her arms around him.

“Oh I don’t know,” said Elizabeth with a grin, pressing a soft, whispering kiss to his temple. “I thought it worked out quite well for both of us.”

 

* * *

 

“Well now for the moment of truth. Will it be jam first or cream?”

“I would never commit such Devonian heresy.”

Elizabeth laughed into her teacup at George’s wry reply, watching as he very pointedly spread a neat layer of jam over each half of his scone, followed by the cream. After a little while spent curled up on the beach, enjoying the sun and the sand and the feel of their bodies pressed against one another, they had decided to walk up to the teashop along from Hendrawna Beach and buy some cream teas. George had insisted that he pay, pointing out that it was only fair as she had both driven them there and provided the picnic and, unable to come up with a suitable argument to contradict him, she had given in and let him. Now they were sat at one of the small wooden tables in the outside seating area, under the shade of a large parasol, with two large, fruity scones each and a pot of earl grey shared between them, a cool breeze from the sea carrying the chatter of sunbathers up from the beach.

“Well that’s a good job,” she said with a soft chuckle. “You might have been dragged right back over the Tamar if you’d been spotted doing things the Devon way.”

“Heaven forbid.”

Elizabeth grinned at him, applying the jam and cream to her own scones in suitably Cornish fashion and watching as he poured himself some tea, adding a dash of milk to the cup and swirling it into the mix with his spoon. He suddenly looked a little shy, she couldn’t help but notice, and she wondered why.

“Thank you for today,” he said quietly. “I had a lovely time and…well…I don’t think I would have enjoyed this holiday nearly so much if we hadn’t met.”

Elizabeth felt a pleasant warmth in her chest at his words, her smile soft and gentle as she reached out and took his hand in hers, her thumb stroking rhythmically over his knuckles.

“I’m glad that we met too.”

He ducked his head shyly, a smile of his own curving on his lips. She couldn’t help but find the action rather endearing, and she squeezed his hand affectionately before she withdrew, picking up her teacup and lifting it into the air.

“To the Cornish way” she said with a glint of mischief in her eye.

George laughed lightly, lifting up his own cup so that its rim touched hers with a soft clink.

“The Cornish way.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

It was the hottest day of the holiday so far, and George had left the windows of the cottage wide open so as to let the barely noticeable breeze into the stuffy house as he busied himself in the kitchen, barely paying attention to the sounds of chirruping songbirds, bleating sheep and buzzing bees which were floating in from outside. For the first time in two weeks, he had a task to fulfil, something concrete to work towards and now, for all that he had spent the beginning of the holiday longing for something to do, he could not quite tell whether he was happy about this particular thing or not.

The task in question was that of cooking dinner. That in itself was hardly all that alarming—he could cook well enough, which was largely the result of having frequently been relegated to the job during his university days, as it had soon become apparent after little more than a week of living together that neither Unwin nor Caroline could cook to save their lives (Dwight, fortunately, had been something of an improvement in that area). No, what had him so flustered was the knowledge that the dinner in question was not just for himself—there was another person visiting that evening whom he very much wished to impress.

A few days after their visit to the beach, George had finally plucked up the courage to ask Elizabeth round to dinner. Ever since she had accepted, he had done nothing but stress over what he should cook, how he should cook it, what ingredients to buy, how well he would be able to make it, whether she would like it and a whole number of other things that threatened to send him into a nail-biting frenzy, for all that he knew it was ridiculous. In the end, he had settled on a salmon dish, and had spent most of the day looking up recipes and trawling around Truro searching for ingredients. Now he only hoped that he would be able to pull it off, especially since as the time of Elizabeth’s arrival drew nearer and nearer, his confidence in his cooking abilities was diminishing with alarming rapidity.

If he were to be honest with himself, he considered as, having finished chopping the potatoes and carrots, he reached over for the courgette he had bought earlier that day and started cutting it into slices, it wasn’t simply the prospect of having to cook that was making him nervous about that evening. He didn’t quite know what Elizabeth was expecting from his invitation—well, in truth he wasn’t even sure what _he_ was expecting either—but whatever he might or might not have implied, it still felt as if they had entered new territory, somehow, when he had made her the offer. Before, their relationship had seemed so new and…and innocent in a way—a few lunches, a nice day out—but this felt more…serious perhaps wasn’t the right word but…weighty, _significant_. When thinking on this, he couldn’t help but remember that the last and only proper relationship he had ever been in was with— _God_ —Margaret back at university, and he suddenly felt woefully inexperienced, worried that he would make some awful blunder or be insufferably awkward or something else excruciatingly embarrassing that would make him seem like a fool in front of Elizabeth. For surely a woman as wonderful and as clever and as beautiful as her would expect something entirely different from anyone she might consider—

His train of thought was cut off abruptly as his tablet, which lay a little way away from him on the table, made a loud, obnoxious ringing noise, and he started, cursing. He floundered slightly for a moment before reaching out to grab it and flipping back to the cover, frowning down at it. It was an incoming Skype call.

“God, Caroline, your timing…” he muttered to himself before propping the tablet up on the table and accepting the call. An image of an alarmingly shrewd-looking Caroline appeared on the screen, Horace curled up sleepily beside her on the sofa.

“You’re still alive then” she said by way of greeting.

George raised an eyebrow at her.

“Is there any particular reason why I wouldn’t be?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Oh well,” replied Caroline with a shrug and a dry smile, “since I hadn’t heard any complaints about lack of work recently I was beginning to worry about your wellbeing. How is life in sunny Cornwall, by the way? And what are you doing?”

“I’m cooking. What does it look like?”

Caroline rolled her eyes.

“George, nobody actually puts an effort into cooking while they’re on holiday,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re meant to be relaxing, not stressing out over cutting slices of cucumber or whatever the hell that thing is to exactly the same size.”

George opened his mouth to argue, but upon glancing down at the chopping board, he realised with no small degree of sheepishness that he had indeed—though not entirely consciously—been trying to cut his slices as evenly as possible.

“It’s a courgette,” he retorted instead. “And logically, since I’m on holiday, I should be allowed to spend my time however I want. And besides, I still have to eat.”

That remark earnt him one of Caroline’s famed withering looks. He liked to think that he was accustomed enough to them not to be too affected though, and he concentrated on finishing cutting up the courgette before piling up the slices next to the rest of the prepared vegetables and moving onto the herbs.

“Oh come on, there’s no way that’s all for you!,” his friend’s voice, rendered tinny by the speaker, called from the tablet. “You eat like a bird at the best of times! So come on, spill the beans. Who are you trying to impress?”

George was sure that the moment he stilled at her words, he had given himself away. Nonetheless, he made a valiant (if poorly-executed) effort to head her off.

“What? I’m not—”

“Oh yes you are! A certain young lady by the name of Elizabeth, perhaps?”

In his shock, George accidentally beheaded the sprig of parsley he had been attempting to dice.

“I—what?!,” he spluttered. “How do you know about Elizabeth?!”

“Aha!,” came the triumphant cry from the tablet. “So you admit it then!”

There was a long silence, filled only by the smugness that he could feel radiating off Caroline all the way from London.

“…Dammit” sighed George, and turned his attention back to the parsley. He knew when he was fighting a losing battle.

There was a soft sound of a door clicking, and into the picture on his tablet screen came Dr Dwight Enys, looking tired but relieved to be home. Caroline turned to greet him, sending him a bright smile, and he headed over to her, leaning over the back of the sofa to press a soft kiss to her cheek. When he pulled back, he noticed George, and sent him a polite smile.

“Oh hello, George,” he said. “How is the holiday going?”

George smiled back. He and Dwight had always got along well enough—really, the other man was so kind and mild-mannered that it was difficult to imagine anyone ever disliking him, even if they had both found during their university years that their views of the world differed a great deal—but he doubted either of them would have described the other as a close friend—at least not like how he thought of Caroline, or Francis. As such, their interactions always tended to be a little more polite and a little less relaxed, despite the length of time they had known each other for.

“Well I’m currently being menaced by your fiancé so its debatable at the moment” he said a little drily.

Dwight huffed in amusement and, shooting him a look of sympathy, headed over to the couple’s open plan kitchen, where he could be seen busying himself with the kettle in the background.

“George has got a lady friend!” Caroline called without turning round, so that George could see the full extent of the wicked grin on her face. He scowled at her.

“Oh…um…congratulations…?” came the faint sound of Dwight’s voice from the kitchen, causing his fiancé to snort with laughter.

“How did you even find out?” asked George with a put-upon sigh. He had finally managed to start dicing the parsley properly, although if Caroline were going to start dealing out many more shocks he would start fearing for his fingers more than his ingredients.

“You know me—many hidden talents,” replied Caroline with a wink. “I’m a woman of mystery.”

He could hear Dwight chuckling into his newly-made cup of tea at the kitchen counter, and she turned round and stuck her tongue out at him, which only made him laugh harder.

“And how did you really find out?”

“Uncle Ray saw the two of you together in Truro,” she said, waving a dismissive hand. “Now come on, tell me everything. Who is she?”

George was sure that, even through the slightly hazy image on the screen, Caroline would be able to see the blush that was creeping its way over his cheeks. He had learnt long ago that there was no hiding anything from her, no matter how much he might try. He had also learnt, however, that that knowledge would likely never stop him from attempting it.

“She’s a friend of Francis and Verity’s,” he answered her, determinedly not making eye contact. “We met when I was out for coffee with Francis and she offered to keep me company since I had nothing to do. It’s nice. She’s very nice. That’s all.”

He winced as he heard Francis’ words about Demelza coming out of his own mouth—no doubt he had given himself away just as thoroughly as his friend had done over his own romantic interests. In all honesty, he didn’t quite know exactly why he was trying to hide the full extent of the matter from Caroline. Perhaps he just wanted to keep it private a little longer, or at the very least avoid her teasing for a time, especially tonight, when his stomach was twisting itself in knots over what might or might not happen that evening.

“And have you kissed this very nice friend of Francis and Verity’s?,” came the shrewd reply; the answer must have shown clearly on his face, as Caroline’s eyes immediately widened along with her grin. “Oh, you have! And she’s coming over tonight, and you’re making her… _dinner_.”

The amount of innuendo she managed to pack into that one word, George reflected grumpily, should have been made illegal. As, he added mentally, should suggestive eyebrow waggling.

“Oh yes, very well, you’ve rumbled me,” he sighed. “She’s coming round for dinner this evening, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make me chop off my fingers before she arrives, thank you.”

“Your fingers are perfectly safe from me,” Caroline said solemnly. “But you can hardly blame me from being intrigued! It’s about time that you found someone.”

“Caroline, please don’t remind me of my non-existent love life right now.”

She must have sensed something in his tone, as, accepting a steaming mug of tea from Dwight as he came to sit beside her on the sofa, she suddenly dropped her teasing façade and sent him one of her penetrating glances, the force of which was not muted in the slightest by the Skype camera.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she said seriously. “I know you—you’ll fuss yourself into a frenzy over everything and it’ll do nobody any good. Just make sure that you have a good time, hmm?”

George tried to smile but he suspected it had come out more like a grimace. He knew she was right, that all he was doing was getting himself worked up, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop.

“Well, I’m sure you’ve got a fair bit to do, so we’ll let you get on” said Dwight, who was trying in vain to settle an excited Horace, the little dog clambering all over him in an attempt to greet him. He sent him a small smile as the pug sat up on his hind legs and started licking his face, which George returned, hoping his nervousness didn’t show too clearly on his face. They said their goodbyes and, just as Caroline leaned forward to cut off the call, he heard her voice float clearly through the speaker, a hint of mischief having once again crept into her tones.

“Make sure you tell us all the juicy details!”

And with that the image disappeared, leaving George to sigh long-sufferingly down at his diced parsley, fighting back a blush.

“With friends like these…” he murmured to himself as he returned to his preparations.

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth checked her hair self-consciously in the car mirror for what felt like the umpteenth time as she pulled into the driveway of the little holiday cottage, worrying slightly at her lip as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, carefully inspecting her make-up. She didn’t generally make much of a habit of wearing it—on most days she found that she’d rather have the extra ten minutes in bed in the mornings than the faff of putting it on—but that didn’t mean she was averse to wearing a little lipstick and eyeshadow on special occasions. Now she wasn’t quite sure if she had made the right decision. Did it look garish? She had tried to go for a reasonably subtle look, as she usually did when she chose to wear make-up, but now she was beginning to think that putting any on at all had perhaps been too much. And—oh dammit, had her lipstick smudged?

With a sigh, she reached over to the passenger seat where she had put her bag and began rummaging through it. She hadn’t packed a great deal out of the ordinary—her purse, her make-up, her umbrella, the little sketchbook that she took everywhere with her no matter what the occasion. There were, however, a couple of items that she had, in the end, decided to take with her to cover the possibility of…staying the night, and upon seeing her overnight things tucked neatly away as she searched for her make-up bag, she found that she was even less certain of that choice than she was about the lipstick. She wasn’t quite sure how far George’s invitation to dinner had extended, nor what might have been implied in the offer, but nevertheless she had decided to prepare for (and if she were be honest with herself, hope for in equal measure) the eventuality, and now she could only hope that George wouldn’t think that she had been too bold in making such an assumption.

Eventually, she managed to pull out her makeup bag and, after touching up her lipstick and mascara a little, stepped out of the car and onto the driveway. It was a beautiful warm evening, the slightest of breezes catching loose strands over her long hair in its lazy grasp as she stood for a short while, partially to enjoy the fragrant smells and soft sounds and the sight of swallows and house martins swooping for insects over a nearby pond, and partially to calm the nerves which had begun creeping up on her bit by bit the entire day. She had, after all, arrived at the cottage a little earlier than expected, so there was no sense in rushing when he may not be ready for her yet anyway.

She watched the swallows darting about for another couple of seconds before she turned towards the cottage and, a little hesitantly, rang the doorbell. A few moments passed and then the door opened to reveal a slightly and rather surprisingly dishevelled George, apron draped over his white shirt and dark jeans and tea towel in hand, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up at the elbows, exposing his bare forearms. His usually neat hair was a little disordered and ruffled, as if he had been running a hand through it, and his cheeks were flushed ever so slightly pink. He looked a little sheepish upon realising the state that he was in and, suddenly knowing that she wasn’t the only one who was a little nervous about tonight, she couldn’t help but find it rather endearing.

“Sorry I’m a bit early,” she said apologetically. “I’ve brought some wine.”

She held up the bottle which she had brought with her, a little needlessly in hindsight, but George took it from her nevertheless, smiling as he stood aside to let her into the hallway. It was a cosy little place, charmingly rustic in appearance, and with a homely feel to it that instantly made her feel welcome, and at that thought she felt a small, soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“Oh you didn’t have to—”

Elizabeth tutted.

“Nonsense. It’s the least I could do considering you’re cooking for me. I wasn’t quite sure what you’d like so I got a Chardonnay—I hope that’s alright.”

It was, he assured her as he led her through the hallway and into a surprisingly spacious kitchen, where several pans were laid out on the hob. The smells coming from them were undeniably delicious and, much to her embarrassment, she felt her stomach, which, given that she had been hard at work painting all day, hadn’t been properly fed since her small lunch at midday, give a loud growl in response. George, fortunately, had not noticed, too taken up with simultaneously trying to make sure nothing on the hob burnt and rummaging through the draws in search of a corkscrew to open the wine bottle. After a short while he found one and, pulling two wine glasses out of one of the overhead cupboards, he poured out a small amount for the both of them and handed one to her. She took it gratefully but didn’t drink from it—considering how little she had had to eat in the day, she thought she had better wait until the meal was finished to start drinking too much.

“Was your journey alright?” George called over his shoulder. He was back at the hob, stirring what appeared to be a saucepan full of potatoes with a spoon, and despite his warm welcome, that slightly anxious, agitated demeanour which she had noticed when he greeted her still hung over him like a cloud. Flitting across the kitchen from task to task, he reminded her a little of a bee darting from flower to flower in search of nectar, or perhaps the swallows that she had seen hunting insects over the pond.

“Yes, it was fine,” she said. “No stand-offs with any tractors this time, fortunately.”

He turned briefly towards her, sending her a swift smile, and she returned it, setting down her wine glass on the kitchen table with a soft clink. Then, before she quite knew what she was doing, she was heading over to him, stilling his fluttering movements with a light, whispering touch to the small of his back. He responded to the faint pressure of her fingertips, turning to face her, his expression a touch apprehensive.

“Don’t I get a proper welcome?” she murmured.

Her palm flattened out against his back, gently encouraging him to move closer to her. Her other hand came to cup the side of his face, and he leaned into her touch, his eyes bright as he held her gaze searchingly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and then he leaned tentatively forward and she moved to meet him in a soft kiss.

She could feel the tension in his muscles ease as he melted into the touch, and she pressed herself close against him, slipping her fingers into his soft hair, relishing the thought of messing it up further. His right arm moved to encircle her waist, his left hand gently cupping the back of her neck, and she let out a soft gasp at the contact, parting her lips under his to encourage him to deepen the kiss. She let out another gasp as he followed her direction, and would have lost herself fully to the touch, but she was becoming increasingly aware of a strange, bubbling sound encroaching on the edge of her hearing, and she drew back with a slight frown.

“Is something boiling?”

“Oh dammit, the potatoes!”

 

* * *

 

George had, fortunately, managed to save the potatoes in time, and a little while later, they had settled out on the patio with their finished meal in order to best enjoy the lovely weather. The food was, in Elizabeth’s opinion, excellent, the salmon creamy and flavoursome and the accompanying salad light and refreshing in the warmth of the summer evening, and it was made all the better, she could not help but think, by the way George had ducked his head to hide his happy little smile, pale cheeks flushed slightly with pleasure at her sincere compliments. The more they sat and ate and talked, working their way slowly through the bottle of wine she had brought with her, the more she felt her nerves beginning to fade away. George too seemed to be more relaxed, more open—no doubt at least partially the effect of the alcohol, which he had confessed to her he didn’t tend to drink often, or in large quantities.

In the end, they had curled up together on a small wooden bench in a hidden alcove of the little cottages garden, surrounded by beautiful, fragrant white roses with the darkening sky above, where faint, twinkling stars were just beginning to appear against their silky blue backdrop. It was cooler now, but pressed into George’s side, head on his shoulder, his arm resting loosely at her waist, she felt warmer than ever. She glanced up at him, tracing the lines of his profile with her eyes—his strong jawline, the elegant slope of his nose, his heavily-hooded eyes, shining bright in the starlight—and though they had been sitting in companiable silence for a little while now, she was possessed with the sudden urge to say something.

“Thank you for tonight,” she murmured quietly, shifting so that she could nestle as close to him as possible; she could smell the scent of his cologne amongst that of the roses, and her eyes fluttered shut briefly as she took it in. “I’ve had a lovely time.”

He turned to glance at her, his face half in shadow, but she could still see his soft smile in the semi-darkness.

“It was my pleasure—it was the least I could do considering everything you’ve done for me these past couple of weeks.”

He moved slowly, hesitantly, and she moved to meet him in a gentle kiss. There was a little more shyness to the gesture than usual, as there had been to him throughout the evening, even as he begun to relax a little more, and she pressed herself more firmly against him, deepening the kiss. Her left hand slipped into his hair, pulling him close, and her right, which had been resting on his shoulder, trailed along the open line of his throat, exposed by the collar of his shirt, and down to his chest, where she could feel his heartbeat racing beneath her palm. He made a soft noise, muffled by the kiss, but there was something about it that made her pull back, watching him in concern.

“Elizabeth…I haven’t—,” he said falteringly, not quite meeting her gaze. “It’s been awhile since—”

And with that, Elizabeth suddenly understood. He was watching her a little apprehensively through his long lashes, pupils blown wide so that the blue of his irises could barely be seen amongst the black. She smiled at him reassuringly, leaning in to press a soft, fluttering kiss to the corner of his lips, the hand in his hair moving to stroke soothingly along his cheek.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said, pressing another fleeting kiss to his lips, smiling as he leaned into the touch, making a soft, involuntary noise in the back of his throat. “It’s been awhile for me too.”

He still looked unsure, but when she kissed him again, he responded passionately, hand sliding into her hair as he pressed against her, and she moaned quietly at the gentle, whispering touch, eager for more. Eventually, they broke apart for air, breathing heavily, and, reaching for her hand and twining her fingers with his own, eyes glittering in the dark, George stood and led her back inside.

 

* * *

 

George woke up to the trilling song of a blackbird coming from the beech tree outside the window to his bedroom and a satisfying ache in his limbs which he hadn’t felt in years. He stretched out with a yawn, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight, muted by the thin curtains as it streamed down onto the bare skin of his back, exposed by the bedcovers bunched up at his waist. With a quiet murmur, he shifted onto his side and, blinking against the morning light, propped his head up on his hand to smile affectionately down at the still sleeping woman beside him.

Elizabeth was lying half on her side, her lovely face pressed into the pillow. A slight smile was playing around her full lips, dark eyelashes fluttering against her pale cheeks. Her soft curls were trailing, tousled, down the curve of her spine and across the arch of her cheekbone and, on impulse, he reached out and brushed the silky strands away from her face and tucked them behind her ear, his fingertips outlining the shape of her jaw down to her bare shoulder. She shifted a little at the touch with a soft, contented sigh, and he couldn’t help but be entranced as he regarded her, the light, dappled from the billowing curtains and the rustling leaves of the tree outside, danced across her smooth skin, burnishing it golden. She was so breathtakingly beautiful that, not for the first time, he was struck by a slight sense of unreality, as if he couldn’t quite believe that this were not all some wonderful dream that his mind had conjured up for him. Well, he considered as he lay his head back down on the pillow, eyelids fluttering and smile broadening, if it were, he didn’t think he’d ever want to wake up.

He lay beside her a little while longer, wondering if she might wake up, but she didn’t stir, and eventually he decided to get up in order to make breakfast. Slightly reluctantly, he slipped out from under the covers and reached over to his dressing gown, which was draped neatly over the chair beside the bed. Wrapping it around himself, he turned back to Elizabeth, worrying at his lip as he wondered what to do. She looked so peaceful that he hated the thought of disturbing her, but he knew he should ask her what she wanted before going off to make it. With that in mind, he shook her gently by the shoulder, calling her name. She woke on the third attempt, rubbing her bleary eyes with the heels of her hands.

“Morning,” she said, sending a slow, sleepy smile, before something seemed to occur to her and she stilled. “It is morning…isn’t it? What time is it?”

“Don’t worry, it’s not the afternoon yet,” George chuckled, glancing at his watch. “It’s twenty to ten.”

“Oh good. I was worried I’d slept half the day away there.”

She stretched out languidly, shifting onto her back. George did his level best not to stare, but it seemed that, despite his best efforts, Elizabeth had not failed to notice his reaction. Moving one arm to rest behind her head on the pillow, her other hand trailing over her bare stomach, where the bedcovers had bunched up around her slim waist, she sent him a flirtatious grin which he couldn’t help but tentatively return, feeling suddenly shy once more.

“I…um…I…would you like some breakfast?” he managed to say, feeling a blush rising in his cheeks. Elizabeth’s grin broadened at the sight.

“Oh, yes please. Here, I’ll help.”

She made to sit up but George shook his head.

“Oh, there’s no need, Elizabeth,” he was quick to assure her. “I was just wondering what you would like.”

Elizabeth settled back down on the pillow with a wry quirk of her lips, and once again George found himself struggling to concentrate on the task at hand. The look of mischief in her eyes told him that she knew exactly what kind of effect she was having on him, and he felt the blush in his cheeks intensify.

“Well, if you insist,” she replied. “What is there?”

“I…I’m not really sure actually. A near endless supply of savoury muffins probably, since Mrs Paynter’s made it her mission to feed me until I burst.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Oh, well, in that case…I don’t know. Surprise me” she said coyly.

After rifling through the fridge and the cupboards for something a little more interesting than cornflakes, George settled on pancakes. It wasn’t ideal—they weren’t exactly his speciality and though at least he wasn’t prone to burning them, he had never quite mastered the fancy flip—but when it came to ingredients, his options for what he could make were fairly limited. In the end, they turned out alright, and he served them up on a plate alongside a bottle of syrup, a bowl of strawberries, a pot of thick, creamy yoghurt and two glasses of orange juice, which he took back into the bedroom on a tray.

“Do I smell pancakes?” hummed Elizabeth eagerly from the bed as he came through the door. She was, mercifully, wearing something now, but upon realising what it was—namely his shirt which she had helped remove the previous evening, rumpled and creased from its time discarded on the floor—he wasn’t quite sure if it would be less distracting than she had been without clothes. The thoughts racing through his mind at the sight must have been obvious to her, as she grinned mischievously up at him upon seeing the look on his face.

“Well it was getting awfully crumpled just lying there on the floor.”

“I…,” George was temporarily lost for words. “I…pancakes. Right.”

He headed over to the bed, placing the tray down and slipping back under the covers beside her. As he settled down, she shuffled up so that the gap between them was closed and she was pressed into his side.

“Ooh yes, I always love a good pancake,” she said, pulling the top one onto the first of the two empty plates he had placed on the tray with a little grin. “My dad used to make them for me when I was little. He was a pretty dab-hand with a frying pan and a spatula if I do say so myself.”

“Ah well, I wouldn’t hold out for these being _good_ ,” George replied drily. “I don’t think I’ve been blessed with quite the same affinity for frying pans and spatulas when it comes to pancakes, I’m afraid.”

Elizabeth made an odd sound that was halfway between a laugh and an affectionate tut, reaching for the syrup and drizzling it over her pancake. Then she took up her knife and fork and cut out a bite, lifting the fork to her mouth and chewing thoughtfully. George couldn’t help but wait a little apprehensively for her verdict, his own breakfast as yet untouched, and she set him a reassuring smile.

“Like I said, I love a good pancake,” she said. “You know, I think you’re a lot better at a fair few things than you think you.”

George didn’t quite know what to say to that. He had always thought that he’d had a fairly realistic view of his capabilities, but he did suppose that he had a tendency to expect perfection of himself. To hear her genuine compliments though, given freely, without any ulterior motive…it was…well… nice. Elizabeth seemed to sense that he was at a loss to how to respond, as she gave him a friendly, gentle nudge and a soft smile.

“Come on, eat your pancakes,” she teased him, “else Mrs Paynter will start feeding you double.”

With a soft chuckle, he complied (they were, admittedly, not too bad as far as his usual attempts went), his spirits higher than he remembered them being in a long time. Yes, he thought as they sat there, laughing and talking whilst they worked their way through the pancakes and strawberries, enjoying the warm breeze that was wafting in from the open window, this holiday was, all in all, turning out far better than he ever could have expected.


	6. Chapter 6

“Oh fuck…”

“See, told you you should have let me drive.”

With another uncharacteristic curse, George backed a little inelegantly into an overgrown passing place in order to let an old, battered landrover drive past them along the winding country lane that meandered off in the direction of the creek. It was quite clear to Elizabeth, who had, despite what she considered to have been her solid reasoning, been relegated to the passenger seat of his car, that, if he had ever been in the practice of negotiating the narrow roads of Cornwall, he was certainly out of it now after years of London.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” George protested, although his words were belied by the slight wince he gave when the side of his car brushed dangerously close to a clump of overhanging brambles that were growing through the hedge. “…Well, admittedly it may not have been the best idea I’ve ever had.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but smirk as he finally managed to navigate his way out of the passing place and back onto the lane.

“You see, this is what chivalry gets you in this day and age—a scratched car and wounded pride.”

“I’ll try to bear it as best I can” she got in reply, and she had to fight back a snort of laughter at the wry tone.

It was another gloriously sunny day in Cornwall and they were heading towards the Helford River for the afternoon. Elizabeth had recently got a large commission for some landscapes of the area, and, wanting to make some little sketches and watercolours as practise before she started on the final product, she had invited George to join her. He had agreed, but despite not being particularly familiar with the area–he, like her, had grown up near Truro after all–had insisted on driving in the hope of returning the favour for the times that she had been delegated the duty. It was quite clear, however, that he was beginning to regret that decision, as she pointed him to a small parking space which was really just a glorified layby at the side of the road, where there stood a half-concealed signpost reading “public footpath” pointing out over the fields.

“Are you sure we’re actually allowed to park here?,” he asked sceptically as he turned off the engine. “It looks exactly the same as the passing places.”

“Yes I’m sure. Don’t worry about it,” Elizabeth replied as she stepped out almost directly into the hedge, scooting past it towards the boot. George followed suit, the route from his side of the car unhampered by the local fauna, and pulled open the door for her to take out her things. Making sure she had a firm grip on her easel, she headed towards the gap in the hedge where the footpath lay, casting a glance over her shoulder at her companion, who was ensuring the car was locked. “Come on, slowcoach” she called back at him.

They picked their way along the path in companiable silence, listening to the sound of tweeting birds and the whistle of the wind, which was surprisingly strong that day, though there was little bite to it. Roughly ten minutes later, they reached a fence blocking their path with a small, rather wobbly-looking stile embedded in it. Beside it was a large, laminated makeshift sign reading “BEWARE OF THE BULL” in bold red letters.

“Hold my easel for a minute, won’t you?” Elizabeth asked, passing the item in question over to him as she headed towards the fence.

George took her things without complaint but there was a rather dubious expression on his face as he eyed the fence and the field beyond.

“Umm, Elizabeth…”

“Yes?” She was already halfway over the stile, one foot on each side of the fence, and she paused, hands outstretched to balance herself, to turn back towards him with a slight frown.

“Are…are you sure that’s a good idea?,” George was still staring at the fence, the look on his features more and more sceptical by the second. “I mean…there is a massive sign saying "BEWARE THE BULL” in big red letters. I’m not sure how fast either of us will be able to run with all this stuff. “

"Oh,” Elizabeth’s expression cleared as she swung her left leg over the style and landed lightly on the grassy path on the other side of the fence. “Don’t worry about that; there isn’t actually a bull in the field. The farmer just puts that up to stop people from walking through it– Oh it’s alright; it’s a public footpath,” she added, correctly predicting the question that had been showing on his face. “I just think that he’d rather not have loads and loads of people traipsing through his field all the time.”

“Well if you say so” George replied, though he didn’t look particularly reassured, even if he had at least stopped trying to peer past her in search of the non-existent bull.

“Don’t worry, if it turns out I’m wrong, I’ll protect you from the big scary bull,” Elizabeth said with a soft, teasing smile, holding out her hands. “Could you pass me my things please?”

“Is bull fighting a special skill of yours then?” George asked, huffing out a laugh as he handed the easel to her over the fence.

“Oh yes, it’s my secret superpower so ssh, don’t tell anyone,” she returned with a grin, settling the easel under her arm. “Now come on you–over the fence.”

“Uh…,” George floundered slightly, his manner that of a man confronted with a task so large that he didn’t quite know which direction to approach it from. “I fear that this isn’t going to be the most dignified moment of my life.”

“Oh no need to worry; I’ll only remind you of it for ten years to come at most.”

With a soft chuckle, George hoisted himself ever so slightly unsteadily over the style and landed beside her on the other side of the fence. He cast a cautious glance around him and, once he had assured himself of the lack of both angry bulls and disgruntled farmers, the tension melted from his frame.

“See, that wasn’t so bad now was it?” Elizabeth laughed, bumping shoulders with him affectionately as they headed off down the path.

“Heh, I suppose not.”

Elizabeth grinned. Sheltered from the wind by the line of trees at the edge of the field, the sun was warm and pleasant on their backs, and with the hedgerows alive with the twittering calls of farmland birds, she couldn’t help but fee a strong rush of contentment at being out with him on that beautiful day.

“I’ll make a rambler of you yet” she said, intertwining her fingers with his and squeezing gently.

* * *

“You’re very quiet today,” Elizabeth remarked some time later, after they had settled down under the shade of the trees growing at the banks of the creek. “Is something the matter?”

She turned away from the sketchbook which she had balanced on her lap to frown down at her silent companion, stretched out beside her on the picnic rug, slowly making his way through a punnet of strawberries which they had been sharing. He glanced up at her, sending her a soft, reassuring smile, but there was something a little distracted in his gaze which did little to assuage her worry.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” he replied, his eyes flickering briefly out towards the water. “I…I was just thinking, that’s all.”

“Penny for them?”

George’s lips quirked in dry amusement as he turned back to meet her gaze.

“I don’t think they’re worth that much,” he said wryly, but something a little hesitant was beginning to creep into his tone. “I’ve just been thinking that…well…it won’t be long until I go back to London and…well…what happens then?”

Elizabeth chewed thoughtfully on her bottom lip. If she were honest with herself, it was not just George who had had that thought stuck in his mind. The nearer this past week had come to drawing to a close, the more the realisation that George would be going home to his old, hectic life in the city, miles apart from his old home–from her–had gnawed at her. She couldn’t deny that she would miss him, miss having his company on her little outings, miss talking to him and knowing he was just a short drive away if she wanted to see him. Would it be different for her now? Sitting, half-expecting someone else to be by her side whenever she went out to the beach, or the countryside, or the little coffee shop where they had met, which she so often frequented? It was strange, she reflected, how quickly she had become accustomed to him being a part of her life, and with the prospect of him disappearing from it as swiftly as it had appeared, Elizabeth’s mind rebelled stubbornly at the thought of it.

“I…don’t know,” she admitted, tapping the base of her pencil against her chin as she thought. “We can…we can keep in touch, can’t we?”

There was a hint of uncertainty in her voice which she had not quite succeeded in masking, and she knew instantly from George’s expression that he had heard it. As wonderful as their three weeks had been, she couldn’t quite dispel the notion that, once he was back to his busy, successful life in London, he would have infinitely more interesting things—and people—to focus on, and that she would be forgotten as just a brief holiday fling that didn’t bare dwelling on. Rationally, she knew that that was her past experience talking—Ross may never have looked back when he upped and left for America, but it was unfair to judge George by another man’s actions—but all the same the worry gnawed away at her, no matter how she tried to suppress it.

“Of course,” George said with a smile, but he too looked a little nervous, a little unsure. “I would like that. But…well…it’s just…I think it’ll be strange now, just…going about my life and you not being there.”

He stopped himself abruptly, cheeks flushing pink, unable to meet her eyes. Elizabeth blinked, taken aback by the sincerity of it. George, she had discovered, was naturally a little guarded with his thoughts and feelings, even when he was making an effort to be open—something, she thought a little wryly, that they had in common. As such, the stark honesty, even compared to the gentle genuineness that she had become accustomed to hearing in his compliments, stunned and—if she were to be entirely honest—rather pleased her, and before she had time to consider what she was doing, that they were in full sight of a public footpath, she darted down and kissed him.

The soft noise of surprise that escaped him was swallowed as she pressed herself closer to him, her sketchbook and pencil, swiftly forgotten, falling in a heap on the picnic rug. Her hands slipped into his hair as she felt an arm snake around her waist, holding her close, and she sighed at the sensation, nails raking along his scalp as her fingers twined in the soft blond curls. In response, he nipped gently at her full bottom lip and she gasped, almost ready to give herself over to the feeling entirely, but the rational part of her brain knew that she couldn’t–not here–and it was with a slight feeling of disappointment that she drew away, resting her forehead against his.

“Perhaps we should go out tomorrow night,” she suggested. “Do something special, you know?”

George smiled up at her, though there was something a little sad in his expression.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Hmm, I’m not sure,” Elizabeth replied as she leaned down to kiss him again. “Perhaps I’ll surprise you. It’ll be my treat, though. You are on holiday after all.”

 

* * *

 

It was mid-afternoon the next day, and Elizabeth had just finished painting her nails a deep, rich red when her doorbell rang. Muttering a soft curse, she blew frantically over them, hoping that they would dry at least a little before she had the chance to smudge them—God alone knew that it had taken her long enough to get it right; it wasn’t something she usually bothered with, but tonight was special—before heading downstairs to answer the door. She resisted the urge to run her hands through her hair with some difficulty. The last thing she needed was to get red nail polish all through her hair, especially since she had only just washed it that morning.

Careful of her nails, she pulled back her front door to reveal, to her surprise and pleasure, a smiling Verity, dressed in a pale pink dress and a thin white cardigan and carrying several large bags of shopping. Beside her was a young girl whom Elizabeth estimated to be around sixteen or perhaps seventeen years old. She too was laden down with bags, and was looking a little shy, though she wore a tentative smile on her face. From what she had heard of her, Elizabeth guessed that this was Verity’s soon-to-be stepdaughter, Esther.

“Hello Elizabeth,” Verity said. “Esther and I were just out shopping and since we were so close I thought we might pop in and say hi before we head back, if it’s not a bad time?”

It was a little inconvenient, but Elizabeth wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to meet her best friend’s new family, and so she greeted them with a warm smile and stepped aside to let them in.

“Make yourselves comfortable,” she called over her shoulder as she headed out to the kitchen. “Would you like tea? Coffee?”

“Oh, only if you’re making some,” Verity replied. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“It’s not a bother—I fancy some anyway. What about you, Esther? Would you like something to drink?”

“Could I have some tea as well please?”

“Of course. Sugar?”

“Just one spoonful please.”

A few minutes later, Elizabeth came into the living room to see them both sitting quietly on the sofa, Esther glancing curiously at the little sketches that she had left strewn on the coffee table the previous evening. On hearing her approach, she looked away a little guiltily. Elizabeth sent her a reassuring smile as she handed her her mug—she wouldn’t leave her work lying about if she minded people taking a look at it.

“Elizabeth…are you wearing nail polish?” Verity asked in surprise as Elizabeth handed her her own mug before sitting down in the armchair adjacent to them. Elizabeth blinked down at her hands, relieved to see that, by some miracle, the polish had not been smudged.

“Oh, well, I’m going out tonight,” she explained. “And you know how I am with this stuff. Takes me at least an hour to manage to paint my nails instead of my fingers so it’s best to get it done early.”

She decided not to mention that she had in fact spent several hours before _that_ fussing over which outfit to wear before she could even begin to go about choosing a complementary colour for her nails.

“Really? Who are you going out with?” Verity said curiously, a slight frown on her face.

“Oh, just a friend” Elizabeth replied, attempting a casual tone, but, from the expression on her friend’s face and the fact that she could feel a blush rising in her cheeks, she suspected that she had wildly missed the mark.

“Oh? A male friend by any chance?” Verity raised her eyebrows wryly at her, an altogether too knowing look on her features.

“Maybe, maybe not” Elizabeth rebuffed the inquiry coyly, taking a sip of her own tea.

She half-expected Verity to say more, but she seemed to have decided that, with Esther there (who was looking faintly awkward listening in to the subject at hand) she would leave her questions for another time.

They stayed for another hour or so, chatting about the engagement and James’ new job in the police force and Esther’s aspirations for university. It was only when Verity glanced at the clock and exclaimed that they had to be getting back to Falmouth that she realised how much time had passed. Forcing herself not to panic–she still had enough time to get ready–she waved them goodbye before rushing off to finish her preparations for the evening. She wanted this evening to go well, and she wasn’t about to start it off by being late to her own date.

 

* * *

 

George, believing firmly in the principle that one should be punctual in both their personal and professional lives, arrived at Elizabeth’s doorstep at exactly seven o’clock. Pressing the doorbell, he stood, fiddling distractedly with the cuff of his jacket as he waited for her answer. He could feel the familiar jangling of nerves encroaching upon him, as they always did on a certain level whenever he was due to meet her. This particular occasion being especially important in his mind, he found that he was much more susceptible to them than usual that evening, albeit not quite so much as when he had invited her over to the holiday home. He knew it marked a change between them—it was, after all, something of a goodbye, though hopefully not a permanent one—and that couldn’t help but sadden him a little on top of everything, for all that he had promised he wouldn’t let those emotions cloud his enjoyment of their evening together.

It had been awhile since he had rung the doorbell, he realised, and she had still not answered. He considered pressing it again, but before he could do so, the door was pulled open to reveal a slightly flustered Elizabeth. She smiled a little sheepishly at him, stuffing her phone into the small handbag hanging from her shoulder.

“Hi, sorry. Verity visited this afternoon and we kind of lost track of time. I—what is it? Is there something wrong?”

George shook himself, suddenly realising that he’d been openly staring. But really, he couldn’t help it. Her hair piled up into an elegant knot at the back of her head, Elizabeth was clothed in a stylish, floaty, wine-red dress which contrasted sharply with her pale skin, accompanied by a thin white shrug and complemented by a pair of dark red heels that accentuated the line of her long legs and gave her several inches on him in height. She was glancing at him nervously from under her lashes, a little self-conscious, but all he could think of was that she looked absolutely stunning.

“I—Elizabeth, you look amazing” he said, all thoughts except blunt honesty temporarily robbed of him.

Elizabeth’s slightly anxious expression melted away into a broad smile, a blush colouring her pale skin as she leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his cheek.

“You don’t look too bad yourself, mister,” she said with a wry quirk of her lips, and it was George’s turn to blush, not quite sure how to respond. “Even if I have left lipstick on you” she added with a slight giggle, attempting to brush the offending mark from the arch of his cheekbone with her thumb.

They headed off along the quay, soaking in the warm evening sunlight and the cries of the gulls above them. Several times George tried to persuade her to tell him where they were going, but each time she evaded the question.

“Hush, no spoiling the surprise!” she teased after his third attempt.

“Alright, I concede defeat” he responded with a put-upon sigh, causing her to smirk in amusement.

They were beginning to head away from the quayside now, up into the city centre with Elizabeth just ahead of him, guiding the way. Eventually, they reached a familiar street full of multi-coloured houses which George remembered to be just along the road from the museum and, turning the corner, came to a halt. Before them was an average-sized, slightly crooked, white-painted house with a low door and small windows. It did not look particularly remarkable–in fact, he doubted he would even have realised it was a restaurant if it had not been for the sign emblazoned on the wall.

“Well, here we are,” Elizabeth said, and he could here a note of uncertainty in her voice. “Now I know it doesn’t look like much on the outside, but it’s definitely worth a visit.”

George smiled at her and nodded.

“I trust you.”

Elizabeth beamed at him.

“Come on then.”

The sensation of walking into the little restaurant, George couldn’t help but think, was not incomparable to that one might feel upon walking into the TARDIS–in that it was most definitely bigger on the inside. Where the outside had been rustic and–dare he say it–a little drab, the inside was spacious and stylish, the white of the tablecloths offset by the deep plum colour of the walls. It was quite busy already, many of the tables already occupied, and the room was filled with a pleasant hum of chatter alongside the soft clinking of cutlery on plates.

“Not quite what you expected?” Elizabeth leaned in to whisper to him.

“Not exactly, no,” he admitted. “But I’m pleasantly surprised.”

At that point, a waiter came over to settle them into their seats and handed them their menus, telling them to take as much time as they needed. They both took them with a smile, thanking him as he headed off to deal with another couple who had just walked through the door.

“God, this place must be expensive,” George muttered as he opened the menu and glanced down at it; his eyebrows shot up. “Oh, this place is definitely expensive.”

Elizabeth laughed.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly a regular dining experience for most people,” she said. “I’ve come here with Francis and Verity before though, and for a couple of family things. Trust me, the food’s worth it.”

She turned out to be quite right. The meal–all three courses of it (thank God he had had a light lunch that day)–had been delicious, though that had not stopped them from talking easily and animatedly on just about ever subject imaginable. Despite that though, George couldn’t help but detect a hint of melancholy in their conversation throughout the evening. After all, they only had one more morning together after this and then he would be gone, back to his old life in London. He didn’t want to think about that though–not now–and so he did the best to put it to the back of his mind.

Their meal finished, they turned their attention to, as Elizabeth described it, “the thorny issue of the bill”. Both determined to pay and unable to come to an adequate conclusion that would suit the both of them, in the end they simply decided to split it fifty-fifty and, feeling full from the food and a little warm and fuzzy from the wine, they stood from their table and headed out into the cool evening air.

It surprised George when they stepped outside to see that the sun had almost entirely set, the red of little more than  a low, thin line in the deep blue sky. They must have rather lost track of time inside the restaurant, he supposed. With the sun gone, there was a slight chill in the air, but Elizabeth didn’t seem to mind as she leaned into his side, slipping her fingers through his and squeezing gently, a soft, gentle smile curving on her red lips.

They headed back down to the quay like this, barely inches between them as they walked. The feel of her body brushing up against him, the flowery smell of her perfume in his nose was almost maddening, but he did not pull away from her–he could not ever dream of wanting to. It was only when they reached her front door that they parted, as she extracted her hand from his own to rummage through her bag in search of her keys. She fumbled with them a little before finally managing to unlock the door. Pushing it half open, she turned back to him, a slightly shy smile on her face.

“Do-do you want to come in?” she asked, and it was all George could do not to stare as she worried distractingly at her full bottom lip with her teeth, her expression soft and hopeful. He smiled back at her, following her into the dark hallway. Even if he had wanted to, he didn’t think he could have refused her anything.

George barely paid any mind to the semi-darkness of the house as he stepped over the threshold. All he could focus on was the click of the door closing behind him and then, as he turned to face her, the feel of Elizabeth’s arms encircling him, pulling him close, and the press of her lips against his own, gentle but insistent. Alost of their own accord, his own arms came around her, right and settling at the small of her back and left coming to cup the back of her neck, pressing close against her. She moaned softly into his mouth, hand trailing down to his chest to toy with the buttons of his shirt.

“Bedroom?” she whispered against his lips, slipping the top button undone.

“Oh God, yes” he murmured in reply, gasping as her fingertips meandered along the dip of his collarbone and down to the second button of his shirt. The press of her body against his was almost torturous; he could barely think properly as her lips found his again, the kiss harder and hungrier than the first. All he could do was return it with equal enthusiasm, fingers fumbling with the clip that held her hair up in its elegant knot, so that it unravelled slowly down her back like a dark, silky waterfall. Elizabeth sighed as he ran his fingers through it, drawing back slightly, pupils blown wide, and then, taking his hand in a gentle grip, tugged him towards the stairs.

“If it’s going to be our last night together, let’s make it one to remember.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
